


God Save Our Foolish Sons

by TheInevitableSense



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Almost smut, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Anal Sex, And that's all in the first chapter hoo boy, Bad Parenting, Blood, Bottom Thomas Jefferson, Canon Death, Church Massacre, Decapitation, Disassociation, Disassociative States, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, FBI Agent Thomas Jefferson, Gang Violence, Gang member Alexander Hamilton, Gen, Gun Violence, Homophobic Language, Hospitals, I Can't Believe I Wrote Porn About Our Founding Fathers, Internalized Homophobia, Jefferson's POV, Liberal Interpretations Of History, M/M, Massacre, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Canonical Character Death, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution mention, Rebirth Imagery, Religion Mention, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Themes, Santeria, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Trans Male Character, Undercover Missions, Violence, Vomiting, getting shot, how slow can the burn go?, kidnapping mention, non-canon timeline, the slowest of burns, this will haunt me for the rest of my life, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 72
Words: 286,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInevitableSense/pseuds/TheInevitableSense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revolution is brewing in New York City. On one side, the ruthless gang boss George King and his large army of Redcoats. On the other side is once-loyal ex-Redcoat George Washington, attempting to oust his previous leader with nothing but a small, yet vicious force. The NYPD is powerless to stop the oncoming gang war. When the violence leaves innocents dead, the NYPD face facts: they cannot do this alone.</p>
<p>Enter FBI Agents Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, specialists in gang wars and violence. Heading up a small task force, the two aim to end the War of The Georges, bring both leaders down, and restore peace to NYC. In theory, a routine operation. They're professionals, experts.</p>
<p>But between an eccentric King, a ruthless George Washington, and a simultaneously cute and frustrating young gang soldier named Alexander, Jefferson and Madison have unknowingly embarked on their hardest assignment yet. Can they end the violence before too many die, or will they be lucky to excape with their own skin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From 0 to 100 Real Fucking Fast

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [God Save Our Foolish Sons (Traduction)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798147) by [Chysack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chysack/pseuds/Chysack)



Safe Harbors Catholic Church was a beautiful place, thought Father Christopher Monk from where he lay on the steps in front of his podium. The same podium where he would preach every mass, his Lord’s book on the dais before him, looking over the children his Father had sent to him for guidance. Stained glass windows spilling sunlight, tinted in vibrant colors, through the room. Gorgeous reds, blues and greens were cast across His bible and onto the faces of His devout. Oh, God, his beloved congregation, the twenty-seven people who came every Sunday at the crack of dawn to worship.

The same twenty-seven faces every week, smiling as they came up for communion. Their voices mingling in prayer or hymn, echoing around the chamber. Father Monk's family, His children.

Not that Father Monk ever turned away a new face, no, he actively welcomed the new members of his flock. Which is why he had said nothing as five boys in red coats—much too bright to be safe to wear down this street—shuffled into the farthest pew. Though his church was deep in Sons of Liberty territory, Safe Harbors had always been just that—a safe place. Too many of the gang boys’ mothers, girls, and girls’ mothers came here for anyone to bring violence into the white hall.

Father Monk had been welcoming, smiling warmly as a Redcoat looked up and made eye-contact. The boy—quite a large nose and full cheeks on him—had smiled weakly, and for a second Father Monk thought he recognized him, then the boy's eyes flicked back down to the bible in his hands.

He'd been unafraid when they approached the altar for communion. When the full-cheeked boy took the wafer from his hands, Father Monk almost didn't catch the hushed apology whispered to him. The boy kept his gaze glued to the wafer in his hands. Father Monk patted the boy’s arm and smiled, though the child moved on without looking up.

He'd watched with simple confusion as the Redcoats stopped in front of the altar, backs to him in a solid line. The truth of their presence at his mass was revealed as Father Monk processed the first gunshot.

From his place behind his podium, he watched as the front row of pews exploded in blood. People screamed as more rounds fired off. The congregation stood and tried to run, scrambling over pews and fallen loved ones. Something—maybe God’s word, maybe just his own wishful thinking—told Father Monk that if he just broke the line up, the slaughter would stop. As His children were cut down in front of him, Father Monk launched himself at the nearest Redcoat.

He dove for the one in the middle, a tall white fellow. Father Monk’s arms closed around the man’s chest, sending them both tumbling down the steps. The Redcoat cursed—a stream of _fuck_ s and _shit_ s—and pushed Father Monk off. He rolled sideways, landing on his side. Father Monk pushed himself to his feet, only to find himself face-to-face with another of the Redcoats. The look of spite and _boredom_ caught Father Monk off guard, giving him little time to react when he felt the muzzle of the gun press into his chest.

In that moment, Father Monk knew he was going to die. His God called for him in the gunshot that sent his ears ringing, reached for him in the pain that blossomed in his chest. He felt his knees give out and he hit the stairs with a heavy _thud_. The gunshots continued over his head, but Father Monk focused on the remains of the stained glass window of Mary and baby Jesus. It has been shattered, but the Holy Virgin’s face had been spared. Her halo and gentle face had been shown mercy from the flying bullets.

Yes, Safe Harbors church had been beautiful once.

At some length, the gunshots stopped, as did the screaming. A Redcoat boy sighed, and let the ammo clip fall from his pistol.

“So, did we get ‘em?” one asked, walking out into the bleeding bodies.

“I don't know,” another said, the British accent surprising Father Monk. “Arnold?”

“Uh, I… maybe?” the apologetic one said.

“‘Maybe’ ain't cutting it for His Majesty,” the one standing over Father Monk said.

“Well,” Arnold said, his voice strained, “maybe that one is? But Washington isn't… He isn't here.”

“Washington isn't here?” the first one asked, “what do you mean, Washington isn't _here_?”

“He's not here,” Arnold repeated.

“The _fuck_ , Arnold. You said he came here every Sunday.” The first one came back to the altar, and grabbed Arnold by the jacket. “You told us Washington and the rest of his little shit gang come for mass.”

“I-I thought,” Arnold stuttered, “he m-made us come with—” Arnold cut off, the sound of gagging and retching replacing his words. The scent of vomit hit Father Monk, mixing with the blood and gunpowder still in the air.

“Damn it,” the British one hissed, kicking one of the bodies. Father Monk shut his eyes, the room starting to spin and darken. He didn't want to be here anymore, in this hell. He was ready for his Heavenly reward. “We need to go,” the British one finished, his voice following a set of footsteps as they walked away.

“But—”

“Washington’s not here, James, but the cops will be soon. Let's go.”

Father Monk lost consciousness before the Redcoats even made it out of the door.

—————

Father Monk didn't think an incessant beeping would be part of Heaven, but apparently it was. He groaned, which perhaps was not the most graceful way to enter God’s kingdom, but it was all he could manage. The Angels would forgive him, surely. As the groan left his throat, it turned into a slight cough. His throat scratched and burned.

Odd. Pain had not been in his vision of Heaven. The beeping he could handle—pain, not so much.

Father Monk cracked open his eyes, and the blurred white above him made sense until his eyes focused, and he could see the drop-down ceiling and fluorescent lighting for what they were. He glanced to the right—the direction of the beeping—and found a little monitor beside his head. Behind it, a cheerful little painting of a boat on a tan wall.

He was in a hospital then, not Heaven.

He clenched his right hand, finding the remote he figured would be there. He felt around for the largest button, pressing it carefully when he found it. A few minutes later, a nurse came in, followed by a doctor.

“Father, how are you feeling?” the nurse asked, smile plastered across her face.

“Tired,” he answered, his voice scratchy and weak.

“You've been out for over a day,” the doctor remarked. The nurse asked if he would like to sit up, or if he wanted a glass of water. He nodded for both, and as the nurse adjusted his bed he looked back at the doctor.

“A day?” he asked. The doctor nodded.

“You gave us quite a scare, Father. You were in surgery for four hours yesterday morning.”

“What time is it?” Father Monk took a sip from the plastic cup the nurse offered. The doctor glanced at his watch.

“Almost 11:15. I'm Doctor James Warren, by the way.” The doctor came over to his bedside. “I'd like to perform a few tests, if that's alright?”

Father Monk nodded, and followed Warren’s instructions as best he could around the soreness in his lower chest. He figured he was on painkillers, which was why he wasn't in horrible, screaming pain. He'd been shot before, he knew how it felt. When Warren was finished, he wrote some things down on the chart that hung from the end of Father Monk’s bed.

“Early signs are good, Father. We expect a full recovery.” Warren said, sliding the clipboard back into its place. Warren looked at him from the end of the bed. “If you're feeling up to it, the police are here. They'd like to ask you a few questions, but only if you think you can handle it.”

Father Monk shut his eyes, steadied himself, and sent a silent prayer for strength. He nodded, and heard Warren open the door and speak softly to someone on the other side. He could hear them enter his room.

“Father Christopher Monk?” One of them asked in a southern drawl. Father Monk opened his eyes. There were three new people, two in sharp suits and the third in a cop’s uniform. He recognized the third, Police Captain Paul Revere. The other two were strangers, and exceedingly tall black man and another, exceedingly short black man. If he had seen them in any other context, the height difference might have amused him.

The tall one, the one with the large, curly Afro and purple suit jacket approached him. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a leather case. He flipped it open, flashing the badge and ID card to Father Monk.

“Thomas Jefferson, FBI,” he said, the southern accent peaking through. “And my partner, James Madison.” He pointed at the short man in the suit. “We have a few questions, if you don't mind, Father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get this rolling, huh? This is going to take a while. Get ready for a haul.
> 
> (Why am I writing about America's Founding fathers and making them really gay for each other? Someone needs to help me get out of this dumpster I live in now.)
> 
> So I need a beta for this thing. My usual Beta doesn't want to work on this thing, due to his limited knowledge of Hamilton. He agreed to do this first chapters, but if anyone's willing to help me out, hit me up, yeah?
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> The Safe Harbors Shooting is supposed to be based loosely off the Boston Massacre (both took place in a/by a _harbor_ , Five redcoats did the shooting, etc.) but the real Boston Massacre was a cluster fuck and nobody's really sure what happened.
> 
> Christopher Monk was a sailor who was shot in the Massacre but survived. He died ten years later, possibly from complications from his wound.
> 
> James Warren was a doctor during the Revolution but is possibly best known for sending Paul Revere on his famous ride.


	2. Obligatory Musical Reference...Go!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the rest of Jefferson's team.
> 
> They're just about as professional and courteous as you think.

“So, what’d we miss?” Thomas asked as the trio left the hospital. Captain Revere looked at him questioningly.

“What do you mean?” Revere opened the door to his car and sat down. Thomas sighed, shot a look at James across the hood of the car and plopped down into the passenger seat.

“I _mean_ , who’s this ‘Washington’ fellow and why were--what did Father Monk call ‘em?--these ‘Redcoat’ boys looking for him? Specifically, in a church, with automatic weapons.” Revere pulled out of the parking lot and stopped at the light before looking over at Thomas.

“Were you not briefed?” He asked. Thomas shrugged and looked back at his partner.

“I dunno about you James, but all I was told was that some gangbangers shot up a church and so I got on a plane and landed, expecting to be briefed _here_ , but got rushed to a hospital to talk to some guy who barely told me _anything_ , really.” Thomas looked at Revere again, “So, no. We don’t know much more than that. But they pulled me and my team from Virginia for this, so I assume it’s some pretty big shit.”

“Thomas,” James said, in the tone of voice he used when Thomas was getting out of hand.

“Yes, James?” Tomas said, innocently, and glanced back, only catching a glimpse of James’ scowl through his own hair.

Revere’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going pale.

“The long story short is we got a gang war brewing and Safe Harbors might just be the catalyst for it.”

“And the long story?” Thomas asked. He had no use for the short story.

Revere sighed, and forcefully relaxed his grip on the wheel. “For decades now, most of the city’s underworld has been run by one gang; The Redcoats. Their leader is this _psychopath,_ George King. Calls himself the King of New York. And the Redcoats are _huge_. King runs a veritable army.

“But it's not just the Redcoats themselves. There's a whole bunch of them, sure, but King also runs these smaller gangs around NYC. Well, it's more of a “pay up or I kill you” type of scenario. Anyway, these smaller guys help push King’s drugs, boost his profits, and jump when he tells them too. In return, they make a little money. The big thing is _protection_ though. King keeps these guys from slitting each other’s throats and keeps competition from moving into New York.”

“So what happened?” James asks. Revere shrugged.

“We’re not sure, but we _think_ one of the gangs King holds power over got a little jumpy over the taxes King makes ‘em pay. Anyway, one thing leads to another and a bunch of King’s drugs end up in the Hudson. Now King’s calling for blood and he's shot up a previously neutral church in a revenge attempt.”

“Against this Washington guy,” Thomas finished. Revere nodded. “Who is he?”

“George Washington is the gang boss that’s defying King’s wishes.”

“Oh, great, _two_ Georges.” Thomas muttered. Revere continued.

“His group calls themselves The Sons of Liberty. They’re all Harlem kids, the main guys in charge anyway. They've got like, thirteen different chapters, but it's all based in Harlem.”

“And where’s King?” James asked. Revere shrugged again.

“Queens, last I heard. But that was months ago. No one can find him and no one who knows is talking.”

Thomas twisted around in his seat. “Wanna do this like Richmond?” He asked. James thought for a moment, face turning defensively concerned.

“I was thinking Charleston,” he replied. Thomas shook his head.

“We had a guy on the inside in Charleston, it's impossible otherwise.”

“Who says we don't now?” James asked, “Revere, do we, by any chance, have an informant in the Sons of Liberty?”

“If we did, I'd have more information for you,” Revere said, pulling into a hotel parking lot. Thomas smirked.

“Richmond it is,” he said as Revere parked smoothly.

“We could do Charlotte,” James offered, climbing out of the backseat.

“You just don't want to do Richmond because then Ben’s gonna remember how you got shot in the-”

“Moving on,” James interrupted, ignoring the questioning look from Revere. He glanced up at the hotel, _The Montpelier Hotel_ , and sighed. “Way too extravagant,” he muttered, grabbing his single suitcase from Revere’s trunk.

“It's Uncle Sam’s dime, my dear Jemmy,” Thomas said with a wink.

“I'm picking the next one,” James said, watching Thomas pull his luggage--two suitcases and a duffle--from the car. Obligingly, James held out an arm for the purple duffle bag and carried it as Thomas wheeled his suitcases behind him.

“Everyone else here?” Thomas asked. Revere nodded.

“Your team’s waiting for you in the lobby. You can give your stuff to a bellboy and we can all head down to the station.” The hotel’s automatic doors swished open and the cool air rushed out, a welcome change from the humidity of the early summer outside. His feet hit the plush carpeting and the ornate chandelier caught his eye as he entered the lobby. Thomas glanced around and--catching the eye of a bellboy--whistled to him and let go of his suitcase handles. One of the women on the plush couches looked up from her phone and stood.

“Thomas, James,” she said, “how was the hospital?”

“Uninformative, Martha.” Thomas scowled. “How’s the hotel?” Martha Wayles-Skelton reached into her suit pocket and pulled out a shiny wrapper.

“Got pillow candy. Grabbed yours,” she said, deftly tossing the sweet to him. Thomas caught it with minimal fumbling, unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. _Caramel_ , _not bad_. “Was the guy not awake or something?”

“No,” Thomas said, chewing around the thick caramel, “Just confirmed what we already thought--five gangbangers with automatics and a target.”

“At least it matches the other testimonies,” Sally Hemmings said, lowering the documents in front of her face, “We don’t have a ‘was it ten guys or two’ situation.” Though Thomas chuckled, it was mostly out of relief. When a powerful gang like the Redcoats does something like this, witnesses tend to contradict each other, everyone making up a fake story to protect themselves. “No one’s given any names though.”

“Father Monk gave three. The target was George--”

“Washington, yeah,” Louis Capet said, turning the corner and smacking gum. “Ludington briefed us about the Redcoat-slash-Sons of Liberty tensions.”

“Ludington?” Thomas asked.

“Lieutenant Sybil Ludington, at your service, Agent Jefferson,” said a young woman in police uniform said, coming around Louis and offering her hand. Jefferson shook it, warm smile slipping at the sheer strength of her grip.

“Good to meet you, call me Thomas,” he said, “and that’s James Madison.” Thomas motioned behind him.

“What were the other two names?” Louis asked.

“Calm down, we’re still doing introductions,” Thomas said. He glanced behind him, “James, come over here and meet Lieutenant Ludington.” James looked up from the bellboy he was tipping.

“Sorry, again, ‘bout him. Have a good one,” he said, and crossed the room to shake Ludington’s hand. Louis tapped his foot against the carpet impatiently. When James was done, Thomas spoke before Louis could.

“Wasn’t that pleasant? We’re all friends now.” Thomas motioned around the lobby.

“The names, Thomas,” Louis said. Thomas rolled his eyes.

“They weren’t full names, just two first names. Arnold and James.” Thomas said. Sally snorted.

“Who names their kid Arnold these days?” She asked.

“Who names their kid Friedrich these days?” Thomas asked, catching sight of the man himself exiting the elevator across the lobby. “Oh, wait, he’s old enough to have fought Alexander the Great. It was probably a common name back then.”

“I’m young enough for your mother, Thomas,” Friedrich Von Steuben called from across the lobby.

“Don’tcha mean his dad?” Sally said. Friedrich shrugged.

“Can’t really tell the difference between them anyway, so…”

“What...what is that even supposed to imply?” James asked.

“That his mom looks like a dude that I’d fu--”          

“That’s enough, boys.” Martha crossed her arms and glared at Friedrich. Thomas smirked until the glare was turned on him as well.

“Uh, oh, Momma Martha’s mad,” Louis stage-whispered to Ludington, earning his own glare from Martha.

“Hey, yo, Benny,” Steuben called to the last member of Thomas’ team, who was lumbering off the elevator in the odd, semi-graceful manner he had. “You missed it! I just _roasted_ Tommy.”

“Except I didn't, Freddy my dude,” Ben Franklin said, tapping his ear where the earbud radio was. “And I must say,” he made an ‘okay’ sign with both of his hands. “Excellent roast. Thomas has been cooked to a _crisp_.”

“Shuddup you meme loving fuck,” Thomas said, “and toss me a radio.”

“I swear, we’re professionals,” Sally drawled to Revere, who chuckled. Ben pulled two radios with attached clear earbuds from his ratty messenger bag and tossed them to Thomas and James.

“At least you all get along,” Revere said.

“Well, color me surprised, you can actually be _useful_ sometimes Ben.”

“Mostly,” Sally added. Thomas winked at Revere, adjusting the earbud and clipping the radio to his belt.

“Naw, don't let her fool you, I hate these nerds.” Thomas flipped his suit jacket over the radio, effectively hiding it from the world. “None of them deserve the _honor_ of working with _moi_ ” Thomas put a hand on his chest, flashing what he knew to be the cockiest, flirtiest grin he could give in Ludington's direction. She blinked, blush creeping onto her face. Thomas winked, grin spreading wider as her cheeks turned bright red.

“Agent Jefferson, I--” her slightly stuttered protest was cut off as Friedrich clapped an arm around Thomas shoulders, pulling him off balance and causing him to stumble into the large German’s chest.

“Don’t let this one fluster you Sybil,” he said, ruffling Thomas’ curls, “He’s just a _huge_ flirt, and one of the gayest men I’ve ever met.” He leaned closer to Ludington, hand still on Thomas’ head, “And I’ve met myself.”

Thomas pushed Friedrich’s hand off. “Hands off the hair! Fuck you Friedrich.” Thomas looked into one of the large mirrors on the lobby walls, patting down the fly-away curls caused by Friedrich’s transgression.

“Not in a million years, Tommy.” Friedrich shot back. Martha rolled her eyes.

“Are we going to actually start doing our _jobs_ soon, or?” She said, glaring at Thomas in the mirror. Thomas placed the last few strands back into place and turned on one heel.

“Of course, Martha dear,” he said, taking her by the arm and pulling her towards the front doors. “If the rest of the children would like to join us?” James snorted as he fell into step beside Thomas. Sally packed away the files she’d been reading and Louis followed her out of the couch spaces. Revere and Ludington shared a look Thomas only caught in the mirror from his periphery.

“Where are you headed?” Revere asked, still standing in the hotel lobby.

“Your precinct, if you don’t mind,” Thomas called over his shoulder. “I’d like to go over the files of every Sons of Liberty member you’ve got.”

“Every single one?” Revere asked. James nodded. “Might take a while.”

“Well, without a pre-established contact--Friedrich, Ben, what are you doing? Catch up.” Thomas spun so he was walking backwards. Friedrich shook his head.

“I told the local SWAT boys assigned to us to meet me here,” He said.

“And you two took so long at the hospital I got set up back in my hotel room.” Ben jerked a thumb towards the elevator. “Gonna be working in the lap of luxury.”

“Yeah, yeah, just don’t seduce too many maids this time, okay?” Thomas said, shooting a friendly glare at Ben. Friedrich chucked.

“Told you they knew, Benny,” he said, clapping the chubby tech expert on the shoulder.

“They’re just jealous I’m getting laid and they’re not.” Ben grumbled, turning back for the elevator. Thomas threw his head back in a laugh, and turned back around. James was talking to Revere as the doors slid open with a _swish_.

“We’re going to have to pick someone to make first contact with--someone in the Sons who’ll help us talk to higher-ups in the gang, hopefully even Washington himself.”

“Going to send someone undercover, then,” Revere said, hushing his tone. Thomas stepped out into the heat, grimacing as he imagined what the humidity was going to do to his hair. Screw Friedrich for fucking it up in the first place.

“Yeah, hopefully,” he said, scanning the parking lot for the cars his team had been promised by the local FBI department. Martha pulled out a keyring and caused a surprisingly bright red Crown Victorian. Not his favorite model, but Thomas approved of the color.

“Why not talk to Burr?” Ludington suggested, jogging up beside Revere.

“Burr?” Thomas asked, and Revere sighed. “He part of the Sons?”

“No,” Revere said, shooting a glare at Ludington. She looked unapologetic. “And he’s not exactly a ‘reliable source.’”

“Who is he?” Sally asked.

“Well,” Ludington began, cutting off Revere, “his name is Aaron Burr and he’s managed to stay unaffiliated in the gang world. But he helps manage deals between gangs and sometimes helps people find information they’re looking for. And, occasionally--”

“If we’re lucky,” Revere muttered.

“He’ll even help _us_ out.” Ludington finished, planting her hands on her hips. The group reached the car ‘donated’ to them, and Thomas noted that Revere had managed to park himself fairly close.

“Why?” James asked, “Why help out cops?”

“He _says_ he likes to stay ‘neutral,’” Revere said, “That helping out everyone in equal measure keeps him safe.”

“He can be really helpful.” Ludington said. Revere snorted.

“If he’s in a good mood. Burr will either tell you everything you want and more, or...or he’ll slam the door in your face and tell all his contacts what you were looking for, thereby screwing you over so hard...” Revere threw his hands up in frustration. Ludington looked at him sympathetically.

“We were after someone for murder and went to Burr to find her. Burr not only didn’t tell us, but tipped her off so she and her sisters ran. The entire family just-- _poof_ , gone.” Ludington waved her hands in front of her face. Thomas whistled.

“Is it really worth risking talking to this guy, then?” James asked. Revere shook his head, but Ludington hesitated.

“Well, we haven’t spoken to him since that incident...and that was almost a year ago now. He _might_ be willing to lend us a hand.” Ludington shrugged. “Might be better than picking a foot soldier and hoping for the best.”

Thomas cocked an eyebrow at James. “Aaron Burr or every file Revere’s got packed away in that precinct of his?”

“I vote files,” James said, opening the Crown Victoria’s passenger side door.

“Really?” Thomas asked, “I was going to say we talk to his Burr fella.”

“Sounds like a risk,” James said,

“I’m willing to take it.” Thomas glanced at the other three agents. Louis shrugged, popping a gum bubble.

“You’re the boss,” Sally said. Martha nodded.

“Aaron Burr it is.” Thomas opened his door and took the keys Martha offered.

“I can get his address back at the precinct,” Revere said, resigned to the idea of visiting Burr.

“Naw.” Thomas stepped into his car. “Ben can get it faster.”

“What can I get?” Ben’s voice came crackling over the radio, along with the sound of him chewing.

“Address. One Aaron Burr. Manhattan?” Thomas asked. Revere nodded. “Manhattan,” he repeated.

“Aaron Burr, Manhattan…” Ben trailed off, “Yeah, give me a moment…”

“Losing your touch, Ben?” Thomas asked, turning the ignition. The Crown Victoria groaned to life, protesting all the way. Thomas resolved to rent his own car as soon as possible.

“In your dreams,” Ben said, followed by the deafening sound of him shoveling more chips into his mouth, “I got him. Aaron Burr Jr. 22 years old, lives in an apartment in Morningside Heights. I’ll send his address to your phone.”

Thomas’ phone beeped as Sally, Martha and Louis all slipped in the backseat. He set the GPS and gripped the steering wheel. Next stop; Aaron Burr’s apartment.

“Let's see if New York traffic is as bad as they say,” Thomas said, shifting into reverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter (and hopefully most of them in the future) was beta'd by [STUMPEDD](http://archiveofourown.org/users/STUMPEDD/pseuds/STUMPEDD). Check them out. They're great. I appreciate them.
> 
> And, as was brought to my attention, I forgot to discuss an upload schedule for this thing. It's gonna be one chapter a week on Saturdays. Chapter lengths are closer to this one than the first chapter was, but it'll vary. It's never under five pages.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> I've decided to work with historical heights and musical appearances. Which means Thomas is like, 6'2'' and James is like, 5'4". Which makes Alexander roughly 5'7''. For people whose heights have been lost to history, I'll just use musical heights. Laurens' height, for example, isn't known, so he'll be like as tall as Anthony Ramos. 
> 
> Martha Wayles-Skelton is better known as Martha Jefferson. The 'Wayles-Skelton' was her name before her marriage to Thomas, a hyphenated version of her maiden name and her first husband's name. Not much is known about her, so most of her character here is from me.
> 
> Sally Hemmings is known as the slave who Thomas had illegitimate children with. Her children were the only slaves Thomas freed after his death. Again, not much is known about her as a person.
> 
> Louis Capet aka King Louis XVI was the last King of France. The one whose head ended up in a basket. Yeah.
> 
> Benjamin Franklin was Benjamin Franklin. And If any of you try to claim that Mr. "I-slept-with-all-the-french-women-and-invented-glass-pianos" wouldn't be meme trash today, I will fight you. He'd be all over Tumblr and Reddit and you know it.
> 
> Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Von Steuben, aka The Man Who Should Have Been In Hamilton. Seriously, if you don't know who this is, look him up. I swear to god. Guy shows up to Vally Forge in a giant fur coat with a greyhound and his french boyfriend having said he was both royalty and a general when he was neither. I love him so much.
> 
> Sybil Ludington was basically the teenage female Paul Revere. She was awesome.
> 
> See you Saturday.


	3. Thomas Gets Real Lucky Without Realizing It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Burr makes his appearance.

Aaron Burr Jr. lived in one of the buildings that Columbia University hadn’t managed to buy up yet--and Thomas didn’t think they would anytime soon. Compared to its neighbors, Burr’s building looked sort of sad, not quite as clean and nice as the others they had passed. Better than a lot of buildings they had passed in Harlem going to the hospital, but dilapidated when compared to the surrounding neighborhood.

Thomas eyed the door warily. It was held to its hinges by duct tape and was an unpleasant shade of dark green. “Are you sure this is the place?” Thomas asked. Revere nodded. Thomas scanned the building up and down again. “Doesn’t really scream ‘trust-fund, Princeton graduate.’”

“Bright red Crown Victorias don’t scream ‘special FBI task force from Virginia’ either, but…” Ludington trailed off. Though Thomas sent her a glare, he decided he quite liked her. He liked spunk.

“Let’s get this show on the road then,” James said, jerking his head in the direction of the door. Thomas strode up the small staircase and quickly scanned the call board. He found Burr’s name halfway up, and reached for the button. Thomas pressed it without seeing the broken plastic cover. He jerked his thumb away as it dug into his skin. He tried again, avoiding the jagged edge. He could hear the buzzing sound as he kept the button pressed, waiting. Then the door buzzed and the lock unlatched. Thomas yanked it open before it could re-lock.

“Odd,” Revere said, eyebrow raised, “Normally he calls down before unlocking it.” Thomas and James exchanged a glance.

“Louis, Sally, Martha, Sybil,” Thomas said, “hold back, but be ready to provide backup. Two of you inside, two outside.” Sybil stepped forward eagerly and Martha followed. Louis smiled at Sally, who rolled her eyes and leaned against the Victoria.

Thomas led the way inside; marching up the stairs when a sign let them know the elevator was busted. The air conditioning seemed to be in the same state, and Thomas found himself starting to sweat halfway to Burr’s floor. _God_ , his hair was going to be a _mess_.

They hit the fifth floor and Sybil and Martha hung back, twenty or so feet from Burr’s door. Thomas straightened his tie and pulled his badge from inside his breast pocket.

“We ready, gentlemen?” He asked. Getting an affirmative nod from both James and Revere, Thomas knocked briskly. Almost instantly, the door swung open to reveal a young man with close-shaven hair, a loose tan t-shirt and jeans.

“The-oh,” he said, grin falling. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.” Instantly his posture changed, his arms crossed and shoulders straightened. He leaned against the doorframe, eyeing Thomas up and down, easy smile on his face.

“Aaron Burr?” Thomas asked. The young man nodded.

“How can I help you?” Burr smiled wider. Thomas flipped open his badge.

“Thomas Jefferson, FBI,” he said. Burr’s smile didn’t falter, but he examined the badge carefully. “My partner, James Madison, and I’ve been told you know Captain Revere already.”

“Yes, we’ve met,” Burr said, ignoring the narrow-eyed glare Revere was sending him. “I assume you’re here about Safe Harbors.”

“You’d be correct,” Thomas said, shoving the badge back into his pocket. Burr eyed him for a moment, lose smile still plastered across his face. After a moment, he came to a decision.

“Would you gentlemen like to come in?” Burr stood straight and turned away, walking into his apartment. “I’ve got water, tea, coffee...if you’d like.” Thomas followed Burr inside, avoiding the walls of Burr’s apartment. Who knew what kind of mold was hidden behind the beige paint.

“No, thanks,” Thomas said, followed by matching answers from James and Revere. Burr shrugged, leading them further into his apartment to a kitchenette.

“I ordered a pizza about twenty minutes go if you hang around long enough you can have some.” Burr hopped onto a counter, sitting up with his back against a wall.

“I don’t think we’ll be here that long,” James said, gaze trailing around the small apartment.

“Just thought I’d offer. Please, sit.” Burr motioned to the two chairs around a small table. “I’m sorry I don’t have much more room. One of you can take the couch…”

“I’ll stand, thanks,” Thomas said, eyeing the frankly wobbly-looking chairs. Burr kept his apartment in order, but it seemed he was living on the cheap. Everything in here was boringly, inoffensively plain. It looked like the world’s worst Martha Stewart catalog entry. A single couch, a small tv, and the table and chair set. The only thing with personality in sight was the front of Burr’s tiny fridge, and even then it was limited to a single photo of a woman and a shopping list.

“Looking for something?” Burr asked, dragging Thomas’ attention back to him.

“No, just wondering what someone like you is doing in an apartment like _this_ ,” Thomas said, earning a covert glare from James. Burr, on the other hand, laughed.

“The trust fund is only so deep, my friend,” Burr said.

“Do you not have an income?” James asked. Burr looked at him, smile still fixed in place.

“You came about Safe Harbors, yes?” He asked. Thomas thought about derailing Burr’s topic change but decided it was a waste of time. Whatever Burr did for money wasn’t really any of his business when Burr was his only connection to the Sons of Liberty.

“What do you know?” Thomas asked, pulling Burr’s gaze to him. Burr shrugged, smile turning apologetic.

“I doubt I know any more than the FBI,” Burr said.

“Just tell us anyway,” Revere said. Burr didn’t even look at him but continued to address Thomas.

“Five Redcoats walk into a church looking for George Washington and his higher-ups but only manage to shoot a bunch of civilians.” Burr’s gaze bored into Thomas as if trying to read his mind. “That’s about all I know, sorry.”

“No idea who those five Redcoats were?” Thomas stared back, leaning against the fridge. Burr shook his head, letting out a sigh.

“You’re sure you don’t know.” James leaned against a window, arms crossed.

“If I knew, I’d tell you, honest,” Burr said, shrugging, not looking away from Thomas. Thomas looked at James, who rolled his eyes. _I don’t believe him_ , James’ look said. Thomas agreed; something in Burr’s demeanor was off.

“You’d be ready to testify you don’t know anything more?” Thomas asked. Burr’s smile didn’t falter, but he swore he saw something flicker in his eyes. _Ah ha_ , Thomas thought, _You do know something_.

“I don’t see why I’d be called to testify about that,” Burr said, each word so obviously carefully chosen. Thomas shrugged.

“Just a question I ask most people,” he lied, “Burr if you even know a _rumor_ , anything that might let us know who’s responsible…” Thomas trailed, watching Burr’s face carefully. Burr’s eye traveled down, behind Thomas. Thomas resisted the urge to look, to follow Burr’s gaze, waiting for Burr’s response instead.

“...I don’t know anything, I swear.” Burr’s eyes flicked back up to Thomas’. Thomas held the eye contact, but Burr wasn’t backing off. Thomas tried to read the man, find something in Burr’s face to use against him. But the longer he looked, the more Thomas realized that Burr was a blank canvas. There was nothing Thomas could see besides the same, easy-going, blank smile. Thomas felt a little ball of anger lodge in his chest.

The moment was broken by a chirping sound, the factory iPhone text alert. Burr blinked and pulled a phone from his back pocket. “Sorry, gotta answer this,” he said, holding the phone close to his face. Thomas stifled a sigh and walked to stand by James and Revere.

“Told you this was a waste of time,” Revere whispered.

“We’re not done yet,” Thomas whispered back. Burr turned towards them, so his screen was protected. _As if we could even read it from the side_ , Thomas thought, _how paranoid is this guy_? After a moment, Burr stopped tapping and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Sorry, again, important contacts I have to keep happy.” Burr smiled the same easy, placating smile. It was starting to lose its charm, in Thomas’ opinion.

“I’m sure,” he said, voice tight. If Burr noticed the shift in tone, he didn’t show it.

“Now, is there anything else I can help with?” Burr asked.

“Maybe you can,” Thomas said, “We need a contact, someone in the Sons of Liberty--”

“Let me stop you there,” Burr interrupted, raising his hand, “the Sons don’t like cops all that much. They’ll like feds even less. If I were you, I’d go talking to the Redcoats. _They’re_ civil around law enforcement. Well, as civil as you can expect.”

“Well, while we appreciate the advice, we’d rather talk to the Sons, thanks,” Thomas said, gripping the back of one of Burr’s chairs. _Breathe, Thomas, breathe._ James’ hand came up and covered Thomas’. Burr eyed the two of them for a moment but shrugged.

“Your funeral,” he muttered, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We won't,” Thomas said, voice growing harder. He was really starting to see why Revere disliked Burr as much as he did.

“As for contacts…” Burr trailed off, thinking. “There’s only one name I can really give you, and even then…”

“What?” James asked, cutting off Thomas before he could even speak.

“I’m not sure where they fit in the Sons, or even if they're _in_ the Sons at all. But, word on the street is that they're the best way to contact them.”

“What’s the name?” James asked, squeezing Thomas’ hand to keep him quiet.

“Lafayette.” Burr drummed his fingers against his countertop. “They run a club in Harlem. That’s the best I’ve got for you.”

“What’s the full name?” Thomas asked. Burr shrugged.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. It’s really long, though. I _think_ their first name is Gilbert?” Burr said, and for the first time, Thomas thought Burr was telling the honest truth.

“Gilbert Lafayette,” Revere said, “yeah, I’ve heard of him.” Burr nodded.

“Then I’m sure you’ve got it from here,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Thomas said through clenched teeth. Burr just continued to smile. Thomas wanted to slap it off his face.

“I’m glad I could be of assistance.” Burr hopped off the table and offered his hand to Thomas. When Thomas didn’t take it, James reached out and shook Burr’s hand. “Come around anytime, please.”

“We’ll think about it,” James said. Burr opened his mouth to speak when something buzzed from by the door. A quick, short burst followed by a longer sound, drawing out until Burr rushed over to his door and hit a button.

“Looks like I’ve got another visitor,” Burr said, face turned away.

“You’re quite the popular man today, Mr. Burr,” Thomas remarked. Burr turned back around, the smile still in place.

“I’m sure you can all see yourselves out?” Burr asked, opening his door. Thomas caught his eye, and there was something almost _desperate_ buried in the loose demeanor he had.

“I thought we could stay for pizza?” Thomas asked, tilting his head. He could almost see Burr blanch before regaining his composure.

“You have a club owner to talk to, no?” Burr said, the tightness in his voice betraying him. Thomas glanced at his watch.

“Eh, clubs don’t really open for a few more hours.” Thomas yawned, faking it until he managed to trick his brain into a real yawn. “I could use that coffee now, though.” Burr was nearly glaring at him, and Thomas swore he could see sweat begin to form on the man’s brow.

“There’s a Starbucks a block north of here. Might I suggest you go there instead? Brewing some here might take a while.”

“We can wait,” Thomas said, grateful James and Revere were letting him go like this.

Burr shifted in place, still holding his door open, knuckles going pale around the doorknob. Thomas watched him squirm, fighting down a satisfied smile.

“Look, gentlemen, I’ve got someone coming up in a moment and I’d really appreciate it if you left,” Burr said, the eternal smile turning apologetic again, though much more strained this time.

“That’s all you had to say, man.” Thomas sauntered slowly to Burr’s door, hearing James and Revere follow. “Call us if you hear anything about Safe Harbors, okay?” He pulled out his card and handed it to Burr. Burr took it and shoved it in his pocket.

“Will do, Agent,” Burr said, watching the three of them leave cautiously. As they approached Martha and Sybil, Thomas glanced back to catch Burr watching them carefully.

“How’d it go?” Martha asked.

“Tell you in the car,” James said, then dropped his volume to nearly a whisper, “Walk slow.” Sybil looked at them questioningly but followed their lead. When they reached the top of the stairs, Thomas looked down the staircase to find a young woman slowly limping towards them.

She held on to the railing tight with one arm, the other was clamped tightly around her stomach. She winced with almost every step, tall stiletto heels clicking against the tile. Her short skirt and low cut top left little to the imagination, but she kept her face down, concentrating on making it up the stairs. Thick dreadlocks hid her face as she half walked, half stumbled up the stairs. When she made it to the top, she stopped a moment, breathing heavily.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Thomas asked, startling the poor thing. She looked up, glancing around her, gaze jumping between everyone behind Thomas. The large bruise on her left cheek and down her neck caught Thomas’ eye, deep purple against her dark skin. Her mascara was running down her cheeks and her eyes were still puffy.

“Y-yes, yes, thank you,” she stammered, shying away from Thomas’ gaze and slipping around the group despite the limp. Thomas could see she was shaking like a leaf as she made her way down the hallway, to Burr’s open door. Burr was still looking at him, eyes flicking back and forth between the woman and Thomas.

The woman said something to him, much too quiet for Thomas to hear. Burr responded, pulling her behind him--protectively, Thomas thought--and into his apartment. Burr sent one last look, one unreadable behind the carefully constructed neutral expression, and shut his door.

Revere whistled. “Wow. Looks like we know where his trust fund goes.”

“That...that didn’t seem right,” James said, slowly. “Not...normal.”

“Do you think he’s her pimp?” Martha asked.

“I didn’t peg him for the pimping type,” Thomas said.

“Would explain why he avoided the question about his income,” James suggested, but he didn’t sound convinced. Thomas shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said, “But you’re right James. Something about that was...off.”

“I wonder who she is,” Sybil mused. Thomas nodded, gripping the hand railing. He filed the incident away into his memory, along with the image of the poor girl’s face. Who knew, it could be important one day.

“Well,” Thomas sighed, “We can hang around here and speculate all day, or we can go follow the one lead Burr _did_ give us.” Thomas started down the stairs, hearing everyone follow behind.

“That lead being…?” Martha asked.

“Gilbert Lafayette, club owner, and possible Son of Liberty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say goodbye to Burr for a while, but there's the promise of Lafayette on the horizon!
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> Aaron Burr did some things. Or maybe he didn't. Don't ask him, he'd never tell you. And not just because he's been dead for almost two hundred years either.
> 
> See you Saturday


	4. The Man, The Myth, The Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lafayette!_

“Alrighty, listen up,” Ben’s voice came from James’ phone. Revere and Sybil were listening in from their own car, and the radios only had so much battery anyway, so James held his phone out to the middle of the car so everyone could hear. “I found your guy, Gilbert Lafayette. Wasn't hard, only one of them in Manhattan. Probably only one in the US, frankly. Anyway, ‘Gilbert Lafayette’ isn't his full name.”

“What is it?” James asked. Ben snickered.

“Okay, you're not going to believe this. His full name- _oh my god_ -his full name is ‘Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette,’” Ben finished, enunciating every syllable in a staccato.

“Holy shit,” Louis muttered. Sally snorted in laughter.

“ _Holy shit_ is right, my dude. God, what I would _give_ to meet this guy’s parents. Ask them what the hell they were thinking. Gotta wonder what his siblings’ names are.” Ben gasped. “Bet I could find out--”

“Back on track, Ben,” James reminded him.

“Right, right, sorry,” Ben said, not sounding very sorry at all. “So Marie--screw it, I’m calling him Lafayette--is actually a French immigrant. Came over when he was 19 for school. Enrolled in Columbia, made it three weeks, dropped out and disappeared. Today, he's five years over his already violated visa, wanted for a couple of assault cases, and _completely single, ladies_!” Ben sang, drawing a groan from Thomas.

“Ben,” Martha said, disapproval growing in her voice. Ben chuckled again, the snickering laughter filling the car.

“Alright, _mom_ ,” Ben drawled. Thomas heard the sound of a soda can popping open from the other side of the phone. “Anyway, Lafayette’s one of two owners of the nightclub _The Fighting Frenchman_ , the other being ex-con John Laurens. Lafayette has somehow managed to avoid arrest for the assaults, _four_ of them by the way, but _damn_ , you should see what he’s done to the other guy. These guys are really _fu_ \--”

“Ben,” Thomas cut in, “where’s this club?”

“Why aren’t you guys any fun?” Ben bemoaned.

“Well, we’re stuck in New York traffic with little idea where we’re actually going, listening to Ben “tumblr-AMA” Franklin drink a soda and ramble about some guy’s ridiculously long name,” Thomas drawled.

“I figured this would be the _best_ time to laugh about poor Marie-Joseph’s name, but _apparently not_ ,” Ben sighed. “I’ve already sent you the address, Thomas. Check your texts more often, yeah?”

“Driving,” Thomas reminded him as he pulled out his phone and handed it to James. A few moments later, Martha had her GPS up and running, Siri’s voice calling out directions. _The_ _Fighting Frenchman_ was behind them somewhere. Grumbling, Thomas slid into the left-turn lane.

“Tell us about this Laurens guy,” Sally said.

“I know him,” Revere cut in. “He’s a piece of work.”

“No kidding,” Ben agreed, “His first arrest was in South Carolina during a gay pride protest at the capitol building. He punched a cop who supposedly used a homophobic slur. He was seventeen. Apparently, the charges were dropped. No idea why, court records are sealed...oh. _Oh_.”

“What?” Sally asked.

“Figured it out. John Laurens is the son of Henry Laurens. _South Carolina Senator_ Henry Laurens,” Ben said.

“So, Politician Dad gets Violent Son cleared of all charges,” Louis said.

“Then Violent Son comes out as gay and Politician Dad kicks him out to retain Senate seat,” Ben said.

“Ouch.” James glanced in Thomas’ direction. Thomas shrugged, trying to relax his grip on the steering wheel.

“He’s from South Carolina. How’d Laurens end up here, running with gang boys?” Thomas said, deflecting.

“Dunno,” Ben said.

“Does it matter?” Revere cut in. “He’s a lieutenant for the Sons, and he’s been down in my precinct more times than I can count. He likes to try and punch his problems away.”

“He did spend time in Rikers for a minor assault charge. He’s been out for a couple of years now, though,” Ben said. Thomas hummed.

“There it is,” Martha said, pointing out the window to a large, grey building. A sign proclaiming it to be, indeed, _The Fighting Frenchman_ hung in large lettering above the door. The neon lights were off, though, and the windows were dark. A row of pride flags hung from the top of the wall. Thomas whistled.

“It’s a gay bar,” Louis said.

“Surprised?” Sybil asked.

“Just stating a fact.” Louis shrugged, eyeing the row of flags.

“Welp, looks like we know who’s going undercover then,” Ben said. Sally laughed.

“ _Just_ because it’s a _gay bar_ doesn’t mean _I_ have to be the one.” Thomas huffed, shooting a glare at her.

“Oh, come on. Go in there, meet a gang boss, pick up a cute boy and all in one night.” Sally’s eyes glimmered with laughter. Thomas glared.

“If you don’t want to, I could…” James trailed off. Thomas sighed.

“You all better be glad I wanted to do it anyway,” he said, pulling away from the building.

“Where are you going?” Martha asked.

“Back to the hotel. If I’m going undercover, I gotta look the part.”

\-------------

“Finally! He emerges!” Louis said, throwing his hands into the air. Thomas strutted out of the elevator, hands in his pockets.

“Damn,” Sally whistled as he approached. Thomas grinned, threw his hands to the side and turned around. She clapped as he finished his turn with a little hip wiggle. Martha raised an eyebrow.

“You’re packing for a work trip and you decide to bring _that_?” She asked, eyeing the skin-tight purple pants. They matched the shimmery silk shirt he wore underneath a well-cut gray blazer.

“He brings his whole wardrobe,” James muttered.

“You gotta be ready for _anything_ , my dear Martha. And this particular outfit turned out to be useful, didn’t it?” Thomas said, smirking and rolling his abs and hips for effect. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors. _Damn_ , he looked good. There was a reason this was his favorite shirt. Martha rolled her eyes.

“Tommy, looking good,” Freirich crooned from where he stood with his SWAT team.

“Why, thank you Freddy,” Thomas said, flashing another smile at the team as he walked past. “Someone here appreciates a good outfit.”

Louis sighed, fiddling with the car keys. “Let’s go. You took so long the bar’s probably open by now.”

As they all piled into the Crown Victoria yet again--they _really_ needed a second car--Thomas watched the SWAT team load up in their vans behind them.

“Isn’t that a tad…conspicuous?” Sybil asked.

“Yes, but necessary,” James said, looking at her from across the hood. “Thomas is going to walk into a practically unknown scenario possibly involving violent gang members. Back up is important.”

“I know, but I thought _you_ were going in with him.” Sybil leaned against the Crown Victoria. James nodded.

“But more is better in this case,” he said, sliding down into the back seat. Thomas slid in beside him.

“Nice outfit,” he said, eyeing James’ jeans and V-neck. James gave him a withering look.

“Not everyone packs their entire closet.” James glanced at his watch. Louis turned the car over--it took him two tries-- and pulled out of the hotel parking lot. The SWAT team vans followed some car lengths behind. They reached _The Fighting Frenchman_ in seemingly record time for driving in the late New York rush hour. Martha twisted in the passenger seat to look at him.

“You got your radio on?” She asked. “Remember your cover? And you remember the code words?” Thomas nodded.

“Yes, mother. _Roman_ for a stealth extraction, _popsicle_ for SWAT and _carousel_ for ‘holy fuck get in here right now.’”

“Good.” Martha nodded. “Now, go get ‘em.” Thomas smiled and slid out of the car, almost a block away from the club. _The Fighting Frenchman_ sign was now lit up in bright red, white and blue. He could hear the base from whatever club anthem playing inside and the windows lit up with flashing lights. As he approached, Thomas jerked his head in a nod to the bouncer--a fellow with curly hair and freckles that scanned Thomas’ body before nodding back.

_Let’s do this_ , he thought, throwing open the door.

\-------------

If he wasn't here for work, Thomas thought _The Fighting Frenchman_ would make for a fun Friday night. The typical club music blared--deafeningly loud--and the strobes flashed the same red, white and blue as the sign outside. The dance floor was covered in fog, the smoke creating interesting lighting effects that swirled and disappeared. The floor itself lit up in changing patterns, and it all combined to make it nearly impossible to see anyone on the floor from outside of the tangled, dancing mob. The DJ was a fresh-faced young thing who was obviously having just as much fun at the booth as everyone on the floor was. The dance floor was ringed with plush booths and tables, filled with people dressed in flashy outfits and nursing drinks.

But it was the bar that finally caught Thomas’ eye. Polished and clean, it sat some distance from the dance floor. People milled around it, but between the throngs of people Thomas caught glimpses of the bartender. A tall fellow, hair pulled back in a ponytail, moving efficiently between customers and drinks. It was almost like he had four arms with the speed he was turning out beverages. Seeing as he was the only employee he could find, Thomas resigned himself to small talk with the bartender.

He strutted over to the bar--glancing behind him to watch James slip in and find a corner booth to himself-- and sat himself down at one of the stools. As he waited for the bartender to make his way down to him, Thomas scanned the bottles of liquor, whiskey and vodka that lined the back wall. Besides the typical fair, there were some obviously imported French bottles tucked back there. Surprisingly pricey, _good_ bottles of French wine.

_Who goes to a bar and gets wine?_ Thomas asked himself, knowing full well that he, himself, did exactly that.

“And what may I get you tonight, sir?” The thick French accent surprised Thomas, and he blinked. The bartender smiled patiently.

“Uh, Pinot Noir,” Thomas said. The bartender nodded, ponytail bouncing. Moments later, Thomas found a wine glass pressed into his hands and the bartender was gone to help another customer. Thomas watched him serve the young woman in a sequined dress a rum and cola. Something about him was familiar.

_Whatever_ , he thought, sipping on the wine. He resigned himself to waiting for the bar to calm down before getting a word in with the bartender. He scanned the crowd. It was early in the night, and the party was already in full swing. He made eye contact with James, who nodded. Thomas smiled at him over his wineglass.

“He is a cute one.” The French accent of the bartender came from over Thomas’ shoulder. He turned back around.

“Not really my type,” he said. The bartender’s eyes glimmered as he wiped down the bar top.

“But not a bad catch, no?

Thomas smirked. “Are you trying to get him laid or something?” Thomas leaned over the bar, forgetting the wine beside him. The bartender shook his head.

“I like to make connections between customers,” he said, the French tilt coming through despite the need for them both to yell. Thomas laughed.

“I appreciate it friend, but I'm not here to ‘make connections,’” Thomas said, wiggling an eyebrow. The bartender looked confused.

“Just here for the party, then?” He asked, pouring a drink for a man who had yelled for a shot of vodka. Thomas shrugged.

“Might have to be,” he said, looking back over the crowd. “I came to find someone, but no luck yet.”

“Perhaps I can help?” The bartender offered. Thomas pretended to consider it for a moment, eyeing the man. He was dressed in a casual black shirt and pants, but Thomas could see the tops of tattoos peeking out of his collar.

“Yeah, I'm looking for a guy named Lafayette. I was told he hangs around here.” Thomas took another drink of wine. The bartender stopped cleaning a glass, looking over at Thomas with a glint in his eye.

“Lafayette?” The name rolled off his tongue, sounding better with the French lilt than Thomas has heard it before.

“Know him?”

The bartender chuckled. “Yes, _mon ami_. I know Monsieur Lafayette.”

“Has he come in tonight?” Thomas asked, finishing off the wine. The bartender grabbed the bottle of Pinot Noir and offered a refill. As the wine poured into Thomas’ glass, he spoke.

“Yes, he is here tonight. He is one of the owners of this club.”

Thomas feigned surprise. “Well, I'm in the right place, then.”

“You certainly are.” The bartender chuckled again. Thomas got the feeling he wasn't getting the joke. “What is it that you want with Monsieur Lafayette?”

“He has some...friends I’d like to...do business with,” Thomas said, drumming his fingers on the stem of his glass.

“What kind of business?” The bartender tilted his head, arms crossed. Thomas pursed his lips.

“I'm a purveyor of...certain products his friends might be interested in.” Thomas watched the bartender’s eyes narrow. Thomas gently patted his breast pocket, before draining half his glass.

“That is...an interesting proposition, sir.” The bartender leaned down, elbows on the bar. The rest of the customer base seemed to be forgotten in the strange intimacy. “I might be interested,” he said, no longer shouting.

“Sorry, but I'm looking for your boss,” Thomas said, leaning back. The bartender grinned wickedly and stuck his hand out.

“Gilbert de Lafayette, at your service,” the bartender said. Thomas’ eyes widened. Considering the French accent, it made sense. Mentally kicking himself, Thomas grinned.

“Well, I really am in the right place,” Thomas said, taking Lafayette’s hand in his. The Frenchman’s grip was strong, but Thomas matched it. “Is there a place we can talk?”

Lafayette hesitated, pulling his hand away. “What...products do you have on you?”

“Not much,” Thomas shrugged. He reached into his blazer and flashed the small plastic bag at Lafayette. The Frenchman reached out and caught his wrist, pulling the bag back out. Lafayette looked at the powdered substance inside.

“Dust,” Thomas said, earning a nod from Lafayette. He released Thomas’ wrist, held up one finger and disappeared behind a door Thomas hadn't seen before. Thomas slipped the cocaine back into his pocket. He glanced at James.

“How's it going?” James’ voice crackled over the radio. Without looking at him again, Thomas flashed a very quick ‘thumbs up’ at James. A moment later, Lafayette reappeared, another man in black trailing behind him. The other man stayed behind the bar as Lafayette came around and grabbed Thomas’ shoulder.

“Come on, _mon ami,_ the bar is no place for business deals,” Lafayette said, grinning. Thomas stood and reached for his wallet, but Lafayette shook his head. “Non, non. Let me treat a new friend, yes?”

Thomas decided not to argue. The more positive Lafayette felt towards him, the better. So he pocketed his wallet, drained the wine in a single gulp, and followed Lafayette away from the bar. But instead of leading Thomas to a back room, Lafayette was moving very decidedly towards the front door. Thomas tapped the other man on the shoulder.

“Where are we going?” He yelled. Lafayette said something that was drowned out by the music. Thomas leaned forward, motioning for him to repeat.

“My apartment,” Lafayette yelled into his ear. Thomas recoiled.

“I didn't agree to that.” Thomas glanced around, but James wasn't in sight any more.

“It is safe, secure, no one will bother us. It is quiet. What is the problem?” Lafayette asked, hands on his hips. Again, Thomas was struck with an odd familiarity.

“Isn't there a back room here or…?” But Lafayette was already shaking his head.

“Let's not mix business with….what's the phrase…. _pleasure_.”

“That sounds a bit like--” Thomas said, but Lafayette was already laughing at himself.

“You know what I mean, you know what I mean,” he said, clapping Thomas on the back. “But this discussion, your...products should not be talked about here. Not at my place of business.” Lafayette looked him dead in the eyes, the determination leaving no room for Thomas to argue. He sighed.

“Alright, then.” Lafayette’s eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face.

“Come on then, my friend.” Lafayette grabbed Thomas’ arm and pulled him out the door before he could change his mind.

They burst out of the nightclub and into the rapidly cooling night air. The bouncer jumped, coming off the wall by the door.

“Laf?” The man asked. Lafayette turned and winked at the freckled man.

“ _Laurens_ , _my friend_ ,” Lafayette said in easy French. “ _I'm going out. Bar’s yours for the evening._ ” Lafayette turned and tossed him a set of keys on a ring.

“ _Who’s that?_ ” Laurens-- _John Laurens?_ Thomas wondered--replied.

“ _A new friend!_ ” Lafayette said. Laurens snorted.

“ _Does he have a name?_ ” Laurens said, pocketing the keys. Lafayette rolled his eyes, and turned back to Thomas, who painted on the best ‘I-don’t-understand-French-what-are-you-talking-about’ expression he could.

“Forgive me; I don’t think I caught your name.” Lafayette smiled.

“William Clark,” Thomas lied.

“ _His name is William Clark.”_ Lafayette said, hands on his hips “ _Happy?_ ”

Laurens frowned. “ _Yeah, I know that now._ ” He crossed his arms and approached Lafayette. “ _Are you really going to go off this early with some toy_?”

Thomas figured this was the point where he’d spit out his wine if he was still drinking it. As it was, he struggled to keep his face neutral, to not let on that he understood what they were saying. Lafayette sighed dramatically.

“ _We are going to discuss business, my dear Laurens, get your mind out of the gutter._ ”

“ _Yeah, okay_.” Laurens turned to Thomas, crossing the distance between them with easy strides. Though Thomas was taller than him, Laurens’ muscular frame was visible beneath the black suit jacket he wore, and Thomas was reminded of what Revere had said; this _was_ a guy that liked to punch his problems away. Laurens glared him down, scanning his body with searching eyes. Thomas’ instincts kicked in, squaring his shoulders and readying his body for a fight. He tried his best to look as intimidating as possible. He wasn’t sure it was working.

“ _He’s cute when he tries to look tough_.” Laurens growled. Thomas fought the instinct to respond, to lean away, to do anything. Laurens glanced at Lafayette. “ _Almost looks like you, too_.”

“ _He does not,_ ” Lafayette protested, but Thomas found himself agreeing. Lafayette looked familiar because he looked like Thomas himself. “ _He’s taller_.”

“ _Which makes him about ten times hotter_.” Laurens said, finally cracking a smile in Lafayette’s direction. Lafayette flipped him off and reached for Thomas’ arm, pulling him away from Laurens. Laurens laughed. “ _Have fun, Laf. Don’t break him._ ”

“ _Business, Laurens, business._ ” Lafayette hissed back, dragging Thomas down the street. Thomas stumbled until he managed to catch up to Lafayette and match his pace. The Frenchman was gesturing dramatically, speaking in accented English. “Do not mind John, he does not mean harm. He is a good man.”

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas muttered.

“You will see, Monsieur Clark. When you do business with him, you will see.” Lafayette continued to lead him down the street, one hand clamped around his wrist in a vise-like grip. Thomas’ mind kept turning the french conversation over in his mind, the one neither gangster had thought he could understand. Laurens’ words echoed in his head; _He’s cute when he tries to look tough_. Thomas twisted his arm out of Lafayette’s hand, but if the Frenchman noticed, he did not say anything about it.

As Thomas absentmindedly rubbed his wrist where Lafayette had held it, he recognized the bright red of the Crown Victoria parked across the street. Though it drew Thomas’ eye, Lafayette paid it no mind. He continued to ramble on about how he and Laurens ran _The Fighting Frenchman_ together, how Laurens was a great business partner or something. The windows were too tinted to see through at night, but Thomas glanced anyway, attempting to draw the attention of anyone in the car.

“Thomas,” Martha said, the radio in Thomas’ ear crackling to life. “Where are you going?” Thomas ran his hand up his neck, scratching at his ear to activate his microphone.

“So, uh,” Thomas said, interrupting Lafayette’s talk on picking barstool covers, “Where’s your apartment?”

Lafayette took the interruption in stride. “We take the next left, and then it is three buildings down.” He motioned to his left, as if Thomas could tell which obscure building in the darkness was his.

“The next left, three buildings down,” Thomas repeated. Lafayette nodded.

“Got it. We’re going to pick up James, then we’ll be there,” Martha said.

“I’ll get the SWAT boys moved as fast as possible,” Friedrich added. The knot of anxiety growing in Thomas’ chest loosened slightly, but did not disappear. Thomas scanned the street in front of him. The streetlights were popping on, the sun having disappeared behind the window skyscrapers to the west. He didn’t like the idea of following a gangster to his apartment in the dark without a partner or secured backup. As they reached the corner, Thomas started mapping which alleyways might make for a good escape, if needed.

“Monsieur Clark!” Lafayette waved a hand in Thomas’ face. “Come back to earth, yes?”

“Sorry,” he said, blinking.

“There you are,” Lafayette said, “welcome back. I asked you a question.”

“Hm?” Thomas glanced behind him. He could see the Crown Victoria in the distance, driving away from them.

“I asked where you were from. Your accent is new to me.”

“Charlotte,” he said, “North Carolina.”

“And what brings you to New York?” Lafayette asked, turning down the new street.

“I came up to find a friend, secure a business deal or two. See if I could find a new market.” The prepared statement rolled off his tongue. Sally and Revere had thought up his cover story, made him memorize it in the drive over to _The Frenchman_.

“Get pushed out of Charlotte?” Lafayette asked, a twinge of sympathy to his voice.

“Did you not hear about what went down back there?” Thomas asked. Lafayette shook his head. “Coupla gang leaders--Lincoln and Davis were their names, went head-to-head. Feds got involved. Anyway, Lincoln ended up dead and everyone who isn’t also dead ended up in prison.”

“But not you?”

Thomas shook his head. “Saw things were going down the drain, decided to skip town. Came up to find the guy who shipped my product down to me.”

“Ah,” Lafayette said, jumping up a set of stairs. “This is mine,” he said, leading Thomas inside. When Lafayette’s back was turned, Thomas glanced behind him one last time. No sign of James, the Crown Victoria or anything that might suggest he wasn’t alone. “Coming, Monsieur Clark?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Thomas slid inside the building--it looked worse than Burrs, chipping paint and drywall. The stairs creaked as Lafayette bounded up them, taking two or three at a time. Luckily, the Frenchman stopped at the second floor, and led Thomas to the back apartment. A French flag was painted on his door, stretching from just below the broken metal number to the floor.

“Here, we are, my friend. _La maison de Lafayette_.” Lafayette opened the door with a flourish. Thomas stepped inside and was blinded as Lafayette turned his lights on. Thomas could see which half of the Laurens/Lafayette business duo did the decorating for _The Frenchman_. Lafayette’s apartment was a miniature version of his beloved club, minus the smoke machines, dance floor and DJ. He even had a mini bar set up on one wall, this one chock _full_ of French wine.

As Thomas took in the sight of plush couches and an entertainment system that rivaled his own, Lafayette slipped past him, laughing. “Impressive, no?”

“Very,” Thomas said. Lafayette ducked behind his bar and pulled out a bottle of wine.

“Pinot Noir?” Lafayette offered, eyes glimmering. Thomas smiled back, sitting on one of the barstools. They were better quality than the ones down at _The Frenchman_ , softer and they didn’t give off that puff of air when he sat down. “So, you deal mostly in…”

“Cocaine, weed. Heroin if you’re willing to pay.” Thomas said.

“The big three, eh?” Lafayette chuckled, pouring Thomas another glass of wine. He shrugged, pulling it towards himself without drinking. He could already feel the last two glasses churning in his blood, and a third seemed like a really bad idea. “So, Monsieur Clark--”

“Will, please,” Thomas said. Lafayette’s eyes glinted as he poured himself wine.

“Will, you mentioned you wished to deal with ‘my friends.’ Which friends might those be?” Lafayette asked. But before Thomas could reply, another voice broke in, deep, commanding.

“Which friends, indeed?”

Thomas spun on his stool in the direction of the voice. A tall man in a tank top and jeans stood by Lafayette’s tv, an open door propped behind him. He was muscular, with a well-set jaw and large hands. Thomas had the odd thought that the man before him could likely snap his neck without thinking.

“ _Mon général._ ” Lafayette said, reverence in his voice. Thomas glanced back at the Frenchman, who had frozen with the wineglass halfway to his lips. He could feel the larger man’s gaze on him, however, and Thomas turned back. _A general_ , Thomas thought, _Lafayette’s general_. It didn’t take long for the pieces to fall into place.

_That was easier than I thought_ , Thomas thought, locking gazes with George Washington himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I'm going to be out of town for tomorrow so enjoy! This chapter was also originally two, but they were really short and I didn't like any point to split them.
> 
> Fun fact, I have a professor that looks like a skinny Ben Franklin. I'm not joking.
> 
> Story note: Lafayette is non-binary in this universe, but Thomas and his gang don't know that. They didn't catch on to Burr's pronoun usage last chapter. Until he finds out, Thomas will refer to Lafayette in a masculine way. To me, Thomas doesn't seem like a guy that goes around asking about pronouns. Not that he's insensitive to it, or will refuse to use Laf's pronouns, it's just not on his list of priorities at the moment.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Montpelier was the name of James Madison's estate. Forgot to mention that the first time I introduced the hotel.
> 
> William Clark was the 'Clark' half of Lewis and Clark. Thomas Jefferson was the one that hired them to map the west.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated. Don't be afraid, I don't bite.


	5. Thomas' Worst Nightmare Appears, And He's Wearing Bright Green.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamiton arrives and it goes just as well as expected.

“Wine?” Lafayette offered, holding the bottle towards Washington sheepishly. The glare he received caused Lafayette to shrink back, sliding the bottle back into its place on the wall. Thomas found himself pinned under Washington’s gaze. He leaned back onto the bar top, trying to look somewhat more relaxed than he was feeling.

“Who are you?” Washington asked. Thomas cleared his throat.

“Will Clark,” he said, dead certain the cold, searching gaze saw right through him. Washington crossed the apartment in cool, confident strides. He carried himself like a soldier, shoulders straight and proud.

“Mr. Clark, I mean no offense to you when I tell you to get out.” Washington crossed his arms, looming over Thomas. Before Thomas had the chance to say ‘ _yes sir_ ’ and scurry right out of Lafayette’s apartment, the Frenchman found his voice again.

“Boss, Will has--”

“I don’t care what he has, I came here to speak to you, Lafayette.” Washington turned his glare onto Lafayette. This time, Lafayette steeled himself against the bar top.

“ _Oui_ , and whatever you wish to discuss, I am more than willing to talk about. But Will and I--”

“If you really think a _one night stand_ is more important, go right ahead. I’ll leave,” Washington said. “But remember the choice you made.” With that, Washington stalked away, clipping Thomas on the shoulder as he passed. Thomas never felt smaller in his life than he did right here, right now. Lafayette, panic in his eyes, launched himself over the bar and ran to stop Washington before he could reach the front door.

“Boss, listen to me, Will has brought us a good thing,” Lafayette said, holding his hands out against Washington’s chest.

“What?” Washington asked. Lafayette swallowed.

“Will isn’t here for... _fun_. He’s willing to supply us with drugs. We came here to talk terms.” Lafayette looked at Thomas pleadingly. For a moment, Thomas considered playing dumb, wondering how bad Washington’s wrath could be to cow the flamboyant Frenchman. But when Washington looked back at him, Thomas pulled out the bag of cocaine and shook it gently. He smirked as something in Washington’s eyes flickered.

“Is that it?” Washington asked. Thomas snorted.

“‘Course not. I’ve got tons sitting around, waiting for a buyer.” _Tons sitting in local police stations confiscated from men like you_ , Thomas thought. Washington turned around and made his way back to the bar. The relief emanating from Lafayette was nearly visible in actual waves off his body. Washington sat down two stools away from Thomas, still sizing him up with his eyes.

“I’ll take that wine now, Lafayette,” he said. Lafayette ducked behind the bar, and a moment later a wine glass was in Washington’s hands. It looked positively tiny in the large man’s grip. Thomas turned back to his wine glass, swirling it around as Washington drummed his fingers on the counter in thought. Lafayette was silent, eyes flicking back and forth between the two men.

It was moments like this that Thomas remembered exactly _what_ he was wearing. Suddenly uncomfortable in his purple skinny jeans, Thomas crossed his legs. He tried to wait patiently for Washington’s examination to be over, but the longer it took, the more worried Thomas grew. Thomas did his best to project cool confidence, one elbow on the bar and a casual smile, but he was wondering where James and everyone else exactly _was_. He took a drink of wine, _fuck it_.

“Why?” Washington asked suddenly. Thomas nearly choked on his mouthful of wine.

“Why, what?” He asked, lowering the glass, trying to play off his near-death-experience.

“Why Lafayette? Why not go to the Redcoats?” Washington asked. Thomas smiled.

“I don’t want to deal with King and his barbarians. I want to deal with _you_.” Thomas looked up from his wineglass. Washington looked decidedly unsatisfied with his answer.

“But why?”

“Long story, Mr. Washington,” Thomas said, the ‘Mr.’ slipping out without intention. Washington leaned back on the stool.

“I got time.”

Thomas sighed. He cracked his neck before launching into his cover story; “I told Lafayette, but I’m originally from Charlotte. Born and raised into the North Street gang down there.” Washington nodded, almost approvingly. “You know us?”

“I considered Abe a friend,” Washington said.

“Then you know what went down, then?” Thomas asked.

“Basic details.” Washington sipped his wine, motioning for Thomas to continue.

“Well, before everything went to shit, I used to run North Street’s cocaine business. All the coke in Charlotte ran through _me_ first. My supplier was a guy from New York City. Things were good, then Lincoln came down with those bullshit rules and Davis started acting up. Then the feds started sticking their noses into places they don’t belong and, well…” Thomas shrugged, “I saw the writing on the wall.”

“You left,” Washington said, the smallest hint of disdain in his voice. Thomas frowned.

“Judge if you want, I got out of there with my skin intact as a free man. Not many others can say the same thing.” He crossed his arms, a dare for Washington to challenge him. But Washington was silent, and Thomas took that as his cue to keep talking.

“Anyway, I decided to come up here and find my supplier. Figured if anyone can find me a place to go, it’s him. But what do I find when I knock on by friend’s door? A fucking asshole in a bright red coat who tells me my friend is fucking _dead_ and I can take my southern ass and--”

Thomas cuts himself off, hitting the counter and forcing himself to take a deep breath. He’s doing a good job; Lafayette is looking at him sympathy. He lets the breath go, ‘steadying’ himself and finding eye contact with Washington.

“Well, it turns out my guy wasn’t as independent as I originally thought. He was on King’s payroll the entire time. He wasn’t even the original supplier for what he sold me, just a middle-man. Also, he was a fucking idiot who didn’t understand basic security measures. King had him killed as an example after he let a group of hoodlums break into his warehouse and dump an entire shipment of cocaine into the Hudson River.” Thomas thinks he sees Lafayette wince out of the corner of his eye, and he briefly wonders if Lafayette was there for the dumping.

“I discover all of this while being told that, without my southern contacts, I’m useless to this fuck who decided to take over my buddy’s business. I punch him in the face, he threatens to kill me, and on my way out, I run into one of the suppliers that used to work with my friend. We get to talking, and turns out, he knows my name. Knows I’m trustworthy. He tells me he’d rather work with _me_ instead of King. Gets his drug-making friends to agree, and suddenly I’m back in the game.

“So now, I’ve solved one problem, but now I got another. See, I’ve got all this product ready to be sold, but no one to sell it to. And I sure as hell ain’t selling to King. I’m just starting to think about going down to New Jersey and setting up shop there when I hear a story about a gang from Harlem that’s telling King to fuck off and doing a pretty good job at it. On top of that, they've been cut off from most of the drug trade thanks to the Redcoats. Then I get a name; Gilbert Lafayette. And here I am.” Thomas finishes, sweeping his arms around him. He grabs his wine and sips it as Washington thinks, mulling over Thomas’ story.

“And here you are.” Washington muses. Thomas smiles. “How much do you sell for?”

“How much are you willing to pay?” Thomas’ smile turns into a smirk. Washington’s jaw clenches.

“I told you this was a good thing, Boss,” Lafayette cuts in. Washington regards him for a moment, then the slightest flicker of a smile crosses his features. Lafayette breaks into a grin. “I was going to call some of the boys down, give Will’s product a spin.”

“If it was going to the Redcoats, it’s good,” Washington said, turning the ghost-smile on Thomas. Thomas smiles back.

“That reminds me…” he trails off, swirling the wine. Washington’s smile drops. “If we’re going to work together, I have one rule.” Washington makes a noncommittal noise. Thomas looks him dead in the eye and says: “You can’t sell my stuff to anyone, _anyone_ , affiliated with the Redcoats.”

Washington’s smile returns. “That won’t be a problem. No Son of Liberty would _think_ about doing that.”

“Then I’d say we have a deal,” Thomas says, “Or am I moving down to New Jersey?”

“What about payment?”

“We can discuss that later, over some better wine?” Thomas sticks his hand out. Washington regards it for a moment before reaching out himself. Their hands are moments away from touching when Lafayette’s door slams open with a _bang_.

“ _Laf_ , we have a _problem!_ ” Someone shouts. The three men at the bar freeze, and Thomas wonders if this new someone had spotted the SWAT team _hopefull_ y sitting in the area. There’s a moment of silence, Lafayette glaring over Thomas’ shoulder at whoever just burst into his apartment. Thomas turns his head, eyes settling on a short Latino man who is standing in the doorway, panting heavily and looking about to burst. They make eye contact, and the man starts.

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” The man spits, and it takes Thomas a moment to realize the man means _him_.

“Who the fuck are _you_?” Thomas replies, spinning around all the way and glaring. The man’s eyes widen slightly, and he slams the door shut. In a flash, the short man is against the bar top, shooting daggers at Thomas.

“Lafayette?” He asks, “Why is some country bumpkin in your apartment talking to the _general_?”

“Country bumpkin?” Thomas asks, the venom in his words not faked at all. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Shut up.” The man is looking at Lafayette now, not sparing Thomas even a glance. “Get him out of here.”

“I'm not going to kick him out,” Lafayette says, shaking his head. The little man’s face flushes and he looks as if he's going to explode.

“And why the _fuck_ not?” He demands. “Who is he and why is he so goddamned important?”

“William Clark,” Thomas said, throwing his hand out for the smaller man to shake. “I'm your new dealer.” The brunette glared at his hand and slapped it away.

“Great. Good for you. Now get out.” The man hit the bar top with enough force to shake Thomas’ and Washington’s glasses. “We have a problem, Laf. _Huge_ problem. You should know about this too, Boss,” he added, glancing around Thomas at Washington. Thomas’ blood was boiling, and not just because of the wine.

“If this is big enough for Washington, I ought to know,” Thomas said, crossing his arms. The man spun, eyes narrowing.

“And who you are again? Wilson Clank?”

“ _William. Clark_ ,” Thomas spat, “and I'm the only person in the city willing to sell you and your little gang any drugs.”

“Drugs?” The man repeated the word as if trying it out for the very first time. “I thought we weren't worrying about the drug trade, Boss?”

“Well, the opportunity has presented itself,” Washington said patiently, looking as if this fiery man with his exploding fury was an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. The man threw his arm out, nearly hitting Thomas in the face.

“In Mr. Southern Belle?”

“Excuse me?” Thomas asked.

“Shut up,” the man said, but Thomas was fed up. Something about this little man was twisting his stomach into little bunches of rage. He pushed the man’s hand away from his face roughly.

“Okay, fuck you, _short stack,_ ” Thomas snarled. “I don't think you understand who I am.”

Immediately the man whirled, eyes glittering in anger. “First of all: _short stack_? Fuck you. Secondly,” he pushed his face directly into Thomas’, “I don't think _you_ understand who you are. Who do you think you are, walking in here with your poofy hair and purple pants. Who the _fuck_ wears purple pants? What do you think this is, a goddamned comic book convention? You're not _fucking_ Superman, or The Panther, or whoever the fuck. Thirdly, I don't give a shit if you literally shit weed. There are always other guys with drugs in this city. You ain't the only one, bro. So why don't you take your southern ass all the way back to whatever podunk little town you come from and stop trying to act like the big-city gangster you aren't. The big boys have something important to discuss, so bye-bye now.” The man plastered the most over-the-top, faked smile and waggled his fingers at Thomas.

Thomas sat stock-still, trying to decide if this little shit- who was still inches away from his nose- was serious or not. He was rendered speechless; partly out of shock, but partly out of the intense, burning _hatred_ he felt for this man. This little man whom he had known for less than five whole minutes. Thomas felt Lafayette and Washington’s gazes boring into him, waiting to see what he'd do. Thomas took a deep breath and stood slowly.

“Well, then,” he said, keeping his voice as flat and calm as possible, all the while knowing he was failing. “I can see where I’m not wanted.” The smaller man stood back, grin spreading wider.

“Took you long enough,” he said, gesturing towards the door. Thomas still made it a point to run into him as he passed the smaller man. Halfway to the door, he looked over his shoulder at Washington.

“If you're ever in Jersey, look me up,” he said. Lafayette blanched. Washington stood, forgetting his wine on the bar top.

“What do you mean?” Washington asked. Thomas shrugged.

“I'm going to New Jersey. Good luck finding someone else to do business with.”

“I thought we had a deal!” Washington called, voice rising slightly. The power of Washington's voice sent a chill running down Thomas’ spine, and his feet stopped without command. Trying to play it off, Thomas turned back with another shrug, arms folded across his chest.

“We did, until your man here,” Thomas gestures vaguely to the Latino, “kindly let me know that I am neither needed nor wanted. But don't worry; he's confident that you can find another supplier. Maybe one that can _actually_ shit weed. Meanwhile, I'm going to move my business to New Jersey.” And with that, Thomas turned on one heel and started to walk towards the door again.

“Have fun! Say hi to Snooki for me!” The loud, obnoxious voice of the small man grated against Thomas’ ears. “Goodbye!”

“ _Alexander_ ,” Washington growled, almost too low for Thomas to hear.

“What?” Came the reply. Thomas fought the urge to look back. He was almost to the door now. _Fuck this shit, James or Louis can deal with these fuckers_. Washington muttered something, and just as Thomas’ hand reached the doorknob someone grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Wait, Mr. Clark,” Washington said. Thomas slowly turned, finding himself face-to-face with Lafayette.

“What.” Thomas glared around the Frenchman.

“Don't go. We need to discuss payment.” Washington is still standing, Alexander looking decidedly put out beside him. Thomas’ brow furrowed.

“What payment? You're not interested in buying from me, as I understand.”

Washington let out a heavy sigh. “Mr. Clark, Alex didn't mean anything he said. He is obviously agitated about something. Sometimes our mouths work faster than our brains. Surely you understand?”

Lafayette’s grip on his shoulder tightened. Thomas let the silence hang for a moment, watching Washington grind his jaw. Then his gaze traveled to Alex, who looked a mixture of cowed and annoyed.

“Yeah, I understand,” Thomas said, glaring at the smaller man.

“Good, then we--”

“I want an apology, though.” Thomas cocked one eyebrow at Alex, who turned bright red.

“Fuck that,” Alex spat. Washington turned his piercing glare onto the man.

“Alexander.” It sounded like a command.

“No, I'm not--”

“ _Alexander Hamilton.”_

Hamilton let out the most exaggerated sigh Thomas had ever seen. “Fiiiiiine,” he said, eyes rolling so hard Thomas thought they were going to pop right out of Hamilton’s face. “Sorry,” he said. Thomas smirked.

“That wasn't so difficult--”

“Sorry that you're so sensitive, asshole.”

Thomas’ eyes widened. He wanted to throttle him, wrap his hands around Hamilton’s throat until the smaller man stopped breathing. He didn’t think it would be police brutality, just assault. He could get away with assault. Lafayette must have seen something in his face, as the grip on his shoulders tightened.

“Will, my friend, just calm down,” Lafayette murmured. Thomas let out the deep breath he didn’t know he was holding. Hamilton smiled, a devil’s smirk and Thomas knew, just _knew_ , Hamilton was getting off by getting underneath his skin. Thomas was ready to punch the damn smile off his face

“Mr. Clark, will you accept an apology from me on Alex’s behalf?” Washington still looked calm, but the control of his voice gave away the livid rage that had to be boiling beneath his skin.

“Why yes, Mr. Washington,” Thomas said. Lafayette visibly relaxed, loosening his grip and patting Thomas on the shoulder. Thomas let Lafayette lead him back to the bar, and he smirked at Hamilton as he sat down where he had been earlier, stretching out by leaning sideways on the bar and putting a leg on the stool in front of him. His foot stopped just short of Washington’s lap. For a second, he thought the gang boss would push his leg off, but Washington just sat down and picked up his wine like nothing had happened.

“So, back to the matter of pricing,” Washington began, but Thomas shook his head. Time to test the amount of power he really had.

“I want to know what this _huge problem_ of Alex’s is,” Thomas said. Hamilton’s eyes bugged out.

“Don’t call me Alex,” he said, running over Washington’s half-formed first word.

“What should I call you, then? Alexander? Alec? Lex?” Thomas tilted his head, eyeing the smaller man. He gasped. “ _Lexy_! That’s cute, don’t you think, Laf?” Thomas looked at the Frenchman, borrowing the nickname he’d heard Hamilton use. “Lexy Hamilton. I like it.”

And the next thing Thomas knew, Hamilton’s fist was in his face and his face was hitting the countertop and Lafayette’s LED lights were spinning and blurring and Lafayette was yelling. Blinking his vision back in order, Thomas pushed himself off the counter, sat back up straight and calmly patted his hair down for signs of blood.

“Will-- _goddamn it Alex_ \--Will, are you okay?” Lafayette reached over the counter and tried to examine Thomas’ head, but Thomas gently swatted his hand away. Hamilton was grinning, looking like he had won a million dollars. Without looking at him, Thomas stood. In one smooth motion, Thomas balled his fist and planted it with as much force as he could into Hamilton’s stomach. He felt the air rush from Hamilton’s lungs as Thomas reached back, grabbed Hamilton’s ponytail and slammed the man’s face nose-first into a bar stool. Hamilton slunk to the ground, groaning and holding his nose. Thomas sat back down, put his feet back up and crossed his arms.

“Why, yes, I’m just fine,” Thomas said, satisfaction blooming in his chest.

“I think you broke my _fucking_ nose, man. You broke my nose!” Hamilton rocked back onto his haunches, leaning his head back in an attempt to stop the downpour of blood that was just beginning. Lafayette rushed from around the bar.

“I doubt it, _mon petit lion_ ,” he said as he knelt down and pushed Hamilton’s face forward. Despite his first-aid training, Thomas didn’t move to help as Lafayette examined Hamilton’s face. “Holy shit, you did break his nose.”

As Lafayette rushed around, collecting napkins and a bag of ice for Hamilton, Thomas bit down on the grin threatening to appear on his face. He really shouldn’t have done that, he knew, but _damn_ did it feel good. Hamilton was holding his face, blood dribbling down his chin and onto the olive green shirt. Thomas hoped that was Hamilton’s favorite shirt, and that he didn’t know how to properly treat blood stains. Then he caught a glimpse of what might have been tears in Hamilton’s eyes, but Thomas would never know as Lafayette knelt between the two of them and started crooning in French.

“ _I’m going to fucking kill him_ ,” Hamilton said in surprisingly good French, “ _Grab one of your guns and just_ \--”

“ _Shoosh_ , _my little lion. He is important, we need him. You don’t know what you almost cost us, Alex._ ”

Thomas pretended not to understand, better to keep one more card up his sleeve. He wondered if Washington knew French as well, but the gang boss was paying no mind to his inferiors on the floor.

“More wine?” Thomas offered, reaching over the counter, grabbing the wine bottle and holding it out to Washington. The look of disdain and _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ he received shook him slightly, the high from breaking Hamilton’s nose starting to wear off. He put the bottle back down. “I would like to know why _Lexy_ here is in the tiff he’s in, though.”

“Fuck you,” Hamilton said, voice nasal. “The feds are in town, looking for us.”

Thomas snapped his head in Hamilton’s direction, feeling his heart plummet. He hoped that any fear that might show on his face would be taken as fear of the FBI, not the truth of the matter. “For us?” Washington asked. Hamilton nodded, earning a reprimand from Lafayette.

“Laf specifically. But us, yeah.”

“Why Lafayette?” Washington asked. Hamilton shrugged, but Lafayette seemed surprisingly relaxed.

“Is that what’s gotten you all worked up, Alexander?” He asked, readjusting the ice pack he was pressing to Hamilton’s face. “Don’t worry about it, yes?”

“Don’t worry about it? Laf--” Hamilton protested, but Lafayette cut him off.

“They come around every so often. It is just the immigration people, no? Trying to deport me.” Lafayette chuckled. “I’ll be fine, Alex.”

But Hamilton was shaking his head. “They were asking about Safe Harbors, and where to find King or the General. They’re coming after us.”

Thomas hadn’t noticed the searching gaze Washington was leveling on him. The anxiety that had disappeared began to build again as he turned to face the gangster.

“Mr. Clark,” Washington began, voice tight and betraying no emotion, “Is this news going to change our deal?”

“Why would it?” Thomas asked, hands curling around his wine glass.

“You left Charlotte when the Feds started getting involved, didn’t you?”

_Fuck_ , Thomas thought. “No, no, no! Feds, I can handle. The whole situation was going to shit. I was there until Booth shot Lincoln and then I got the hell out. No, Feds are good.” Thomas winced. “Well, not good, but…” Washington was still staring at him, almost suspiciously. Thomas swallowed. He needed to get what little trust he’d been building with Washington back.

“You were in Charlotte?” Hamilton’s strained question brought Thomas’ attention back to the little man.

“Yeah, saw the whole thing go down,” Thomas said.

“Huh, didn’t know they released the name of the guy who shot Lincoln,” Hamilton said. Thomas winced again, internally this time.

“I was there, Lexy,” Thomas scoffed. “I saw it.”

“You were in the theater?” Hamilton asked. Thomas nodded before he could stop himself. Hamilton's eyes narrowed. “How’d you get out? I thought that turned into a massacre-slash-arrest-fest.”

“I knew one of the actors. He slipped me out,” Thomas said, mouth dry. How the fuck did Hamilton know this much about the Ford’s Theatre Sting? That whole thing had been a disaster, sure, but Hamilton was right. Almost no one left the theater alive that night without a badge or handcuffs on their wrists.

Hamilton made a little noise in the back of his throat. He gave Thomas an odd look before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He started tapping furiously, and Thomas watched him with nothing less than the utmost suspicion.

“Mr. Clark,” Washington said.

“Yes?” Thomas replied, not taking his eyes off Hamilton and his damn phone. Washington tapped the countertop, slowly drawing Thomas’ gaze from the man on the floor. He and Lafayette were talking, hushed French that Thomas could _almost_ understand, if they just talked a bit _louder_. But he couldn’t lean in without giving away that he was fluent in their second language.

“I hope you understand me when I say I’m going to need a show of faith before I lock myself into any deals,” Washington began.

“What kind of ‘show of faith?’” Thomas didn’t think the screaming voice in his head--the voice yelling at him to _get out of there, get out of there now_ \-- could get any louder, but he underestimated the power of fear.

“Just a small thing, a token.” Washington drummed his fingers on the counter. Thomas’ head filled with images of shooting civilians or offering up some precious collateral, like _fingers_. He swallowed, his dry throat choking him from the inside. “A small-scale deal. Just a couple of ounces of cocaine. We’ll pay, of course, but we need to know you can supply.”

“Oh, of course,” Thomas said, keeping his voice as cool and as confident as his shaking hands weren’t. “How much? Two, three ounces?”

“Two, tomorrow.” Washington grabbed a napkin from the end of the bar and scribbled on it. “Here’s the address I want it delivered too,” he said, sliding one napkin to Thomas. He glanced at it, _David’s Diner_ it read, in large, scratchy handwriting, folded it, and shoved it into his breast pocket. Washington was already pushing another napkin to him, however. “My offer,” he said.

Thomas’ eyebrows skyrocketed. He had no idea the Sons had access to these kinds of funds. It was way over what anyone should pay for _two ounces_ of cocaine, but Thomas figured Washington was desperate. He’d lower the price when a regular thing got settled, but until then…

“Cash?” Thomas asked. Washington nodded.

“If you wish.”

“Then we have a deal!” Thomas said, breaking out into a grin. He clapped his hands together and sat up straight, pulling his feet down to the floor. “Pleasure doing business, Mr. Washington.” Thomas stuck out his hand, hovering just over the stool between him and Washington. Washington returned the smile, a small thing that rarely graced his face, and moved to shake Thomas’ hand.

Just then, Lafayette was up and at Washington’s side, pressing Hamilton’s phone into his hand. Lafayette whispered something into Washington’s ear, and looked at Thomas sideways. Lafayette wasn’t smiling, he was almost glaring. Thomas’ stomach dropped through the floor. Carefully, moving ever-so-slightly, Thomas leaned forward and angled his head _just right_ to see the screen.

It was a text log, with the name _Asshole.Burr_ blazoned across the top. Thomas could see four messages. The first was a question from Burr: _Which sisters, Hamilton?,_ the second one from Hamilton that read: _All three. A, E, and P_.

Underneath Hamilton’s message was a picture, a single image of Thomas, James, and Revere at Burr’s apartment. Underneath Burr had captioned the image: _Left is Agent Thomas Jefferson, Right is James Madison. I assume you know Revere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revere: I _told_ you so.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> If it isn't clear yet, Thomas had an assignment in Charlotte that basically played out like the Civil War. More details will come.
> 
> Also, let's all pretend the Boston Tea Party happened before the Boston Massacre, okay? Because that's what the whole 'dumping drugs into the Hudson' is supposed to be.
> 
> See You Saturday


	6. When Someone Tells You They Have "Cops At Gunpoint," Assume It Is Literal. What Were You Expecting John? Puppies?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas learns why he should have listened to Revere about Burr.

“Mr. _Clark_?” Washington asks, his voice shaking from rage. His eyes glimmer with anger and there is murder painted across his face. Lafayette is glaring at him with barely-controlled rage. He shook, carefully placing Hamilton’s phone on the bar top and rolling up his sleeves.

Thomas however, sees none of that. He is already up, jumping away from Washington and Lafayette. His hand is already at his ear, his eyes on the front door. It wasn’t too far, a short sprint and Thomas is out. His feet are moving of their own accord, propelling him towards freedom and his SWAT team backup. “Carousel, _Carousel, Caro-_ ”

Thomas had forgotten about Hamilton until a hand wrapped itself around his ankle and yanked. Thomas falls face-first into the hardwood flooring, hitting the ground with a heavy _thud_. For a moment, Thomas struggles to find his breath, kicking off the vice-like grip. His foot connects with something hard, Hamilton cries out, and Thomas’ ankle is freed. Just as Thomas is starting to push himself off the floor and to his feet, a hand tangles itself into his hair and pulls, _hard._

Thomas’ head snaps back, and his hands are scrabbling for purchase against his assailant’s arm. Another arm snakes around his chest and Thomas is pulled to his feet. He’s trying to twist around, flailing for something to strike when he’s lifted completely into the air. A moment later his face is slammed down onto the bar top.

His head is lifted, and he manages to spot the forgotten wine bottle by his head. His head hits the bar again and his vision is sent swimming, but he thinks he spots a fleck or two of blood on the counter. His hand reaches out, closes around the wine bottle and Thomas swings it backwards, hoping for the best.

It connects with a shattering noise and a French curse. Lafayette’s grip falters and Thomas makes a break for it. His sight is still blurry, and his head feels like it’s about to split open, but he manages a run for the door. He almost makes it, hand just about to close over the doorknob when Hamilton slams into him from the side.

Thomas stumbles under Hamilton’s weight, and before he can get his bearings again, he’s being pressed into a wall. His hands come up to push back, but he hears the unmistakable _click_ of a gun being cocked and Thomas freezes. Slowly, he turns his head and sees the muzzle of a gun inches away from his head, a fuzzy, scowling Hamilton behind it. His nose is still bleeding, Thomas notices, as is a new gash on his forehead.

Funny, Thomas can swear he feels blood dripping through his own hair and down his face.

“I swear to god if you so much as _flinch_ , I will blow you to the ne-” Thomas doesn’t hear the remainder of Hamilton’s threat. The bang of the door being slammed open masks his words. Hamilton spins but doesn’t remove the gun. Thomas doesn’t think he’s ever been this _grateful_ to see a short black man with a gun bust down a door.

James takes a total of three seconds to size up the situation and turn his already drawn pistol on Hamilton. “Put the gun down,” James commands, but the next second he’s forced to duck under a punch Lafayette throws in his direction. James throws his shoulder into Lafayette’s stomach, but Lafayette has a hand on James’ gun now and they’re wrestling for it. They stumble out of Thomas’ sight.

Thomas does some mental calculations; 5 ft 4, sickly James Madison against 5 ft 11 hardened gangster Lafayette.

When James is thrown against the wall beside him, Thomas is not surprised.

There is a moment of silence, permeated only by heavy breathing and a wheezing from James. Thomas considers the risk of turning his head to look at his partner, but Hamilton is staring him down the barrel of his gun again and Thomas does not want to push him.

“So, uh,” Thomas says, “One of you want to get James’ inhaler? It sounds like he needs it.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Hamilton snaps. His face is burning red, and he looks like he’s _sizzling_ with anger. Thomas watches him drum his fingers against the gun grip. He’s breathing heavily, forced to use his mouth.

“The french one punched me in the throat. I’m okay,” James says, followed by a grunt of pain as Lafayette hits him with his newly-acquired gun.

“This isn’t going to be it, Boss. There’s probably SWAT around and--” Hamilton is rambling, eyes flicking between Washington and Thomas. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas can just see that Washington has not moved from his stool. And he’s still sipping the last of the wine from his glass.

“Most certainly,” Washington cuts in. “Lafayette, call Laurens. He’s good with this sort of thing.”

“So, uh, how’s your day, James?” Thomas asks, earning a pistol but to the head.

I told you to shut up,” Hamilton says, but Thomas is more concerned with the darkness around the edge of his vision to care. He tries to count how many head injuries this makes, but he can’t remember how many times he hit the bar.

Thomas swears to every god in existence that if he lives, he’s going to _kill_ Aaron Burr.

“ _Laurens, come down to my place. Use the back way. We’ve got a problem._ ” Lafayette is speaking in French. Thomas bites down laughter. Now is not the time to bust himself even further, no matter how oddly giddy he suddenly feels. “ _Like, cops at gunpoint, bad….No, John, I am not exaggerating._ ”

What are we going to do, Boss?” Hamilton asks. “We’re so _fucking_ screwed. Screwed three ways to Sunday. We can’t kill them, they’re _feds_. Can’t let them go. And _where the hell_ is their backup?” Washington is watching Hamilton ramble, almost fondly. “It’s been way too long. They should be here by now.”

_You’re telling me_ , Thomas thought. He presses his face into the wall, hoping the pressure was enough to activate his microphone. “Gentlemen, now, why don’t we all just sit down, maybe get some _popsicles_ , talk this out?”

“ _What don’t you understand about ‘shut up_?’” Hamilton screeches.

“We know boys, we’re coming,” Friedrich says, “we’re coming as fast as we can.”

There was a rapping on the window. Hamilton’s head jerks in that direction and Thomas used the momentary distraction to spin around, planting his back on the wall instead. He doesn’t get much further as Hamilton’s eyes were back on him in an instant. Thomas made doubly sure to keep his hands up where Hamilton could see them. No point getting shot if he could avoid it.

Washington strolls over to the window and throws it open. John Laurens crawls through, just barely keeping himself from hitting the floor face-first. Thomas snorts as the large man stumbles to his feet.

“Welcome, John,” Washington says, “thanks for coming so fast.”

“No problem Boss,” Laurens says, rolling his shoulders. “Now, what's the big problem?” Washington looks at Thomas and James; Laurens follows his gaze. His eyes widen.

“When you said ‘cops at gunpoint,” Laurens says, looking at Lafayette, “don't tell me you meant literally.” Lafayette’s smile says it all. Laurens sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _Damn it, the tall one’s cute too_ ,” he mutters in French. He looks at Washington. “Alright, what's the plan?”

“What ideas do you have?” Washington asks.

“Do they have backup on the way?” Laurens leans against the bar top. Hamilton shrugs.

“This guy definitely said a panic word.” Hamilton gestures to Thomas with his gun. Laurens eyes Thomas and James, working his jaw back and forth.

“So, I’m thinking we wait until their backup _does_ show, and use these two to hostage-negotiate our way out of here.”

“And if backup doesn’t show?” Hamilton asks. Laurens shrugs.

“Kill ‘em,” he says flippantly. Thomas’ blood runs cold at how unfazed Laurens sounds; it is like he is deciding what to have for dinner or what shoes to wear.

“They’re federal agents,” Hamilton hisses. Laurens shrugs again.

“Then kill them ‘federally,’ what do you want me to say?”

“So we just wait,” Washington says. Laurens nods. Washington reaches over the bar and plucks another bottle of wine from the wall. He fills his glass as Laurens walks over to Lafayette.

“Why are you soaked in wine?” Laurens asks. Lafayette scowls. He jerks his head in Thomas’ direction. Thomas smiles sheepishly. “Gonna tell me he broke Alex’s nose too?”

“He did,” Hamilton growls. Laurens rolls his eyes.

“Lemme see,” he says, swatting to Hamilton’s height. Laurens starts to poke and prod at Hamilton’s nose, which is starting to turn purple and bruised. Hamilton winces as Laurens manipulates his nose, his hand instinctively tensing around his gun. For a second, Thomas is afraid Hamilton is going to accidentally squeeze the trigger. Laurens tutts. “What did I tell you about getting into fights?”

“Well, first, he’s cop so…” Hamilton scowls. “Secondly, he was being a dick.”  
“ _To be fair, Alexander started it,_ ” Lafayette says in French.

“ _What did you do?_ ” Laurens asks, pulling a napkin from his pocket and pressing it to Hamilton’s face

“ _Well, I walked in here--ow, fuck, Laurens, calm down_ ,” Hamilton pulls away from Laurens’ hand. Laurens just chases him and presses with more force. “ _I come into this apartment, ready to warn Laf about the feds, and I see a man I don’t know with a southern accent talking to Washington. How am I supposed to react_?”

“ _You assumed he was a cop?_ ” Lafayette asks, almost incredulously.

“ _I assumed everyone I passed on the street on the way here was a cop_ ,” Hamilton says. “ _Turns out, I was right, though_.” Laurens smiles wryly.

“ _Yeah, I suppose you were,_ ” Laurens said, fondly. He pats Hamilton on the shoulder. Hamilton relaxes under the gesture. They share a smile, and Thomas feels something twist in his gut. Well, if Laurens was Hamilton's friend, fuck him too. Anyone who actually likes the little shit had to be just as bad.

“ _You two want to stop being so gay_?” Lafayette says. Laurens flips him off.

“ _You want me to look at that head wound or not_?” He asks. Thomas notices the blood dripping down Lafayette’s face for the first time. There’s shards of glass sparkling in his hair and his entire front is soaked with wine. Tendrils of his hair are still slightly dripping with it. Satisfaction rises in Thomas and he can’t stop the little chuckle that escapes him.

“What’s so fucking funny, huh?” Hamilton spins, shoving the gun closer to Thomas’ nose.

“Oh, I was just thinking…” Thomas snickers, “I did the thing in movies where you smash a bottle over someone’s head. I actually did it and it’s pretty cool.” One of Lafayette’s eyebrows shot up.

“Is he normally like this?” He asks James. James nods with a sigh.

“Oh, James. Forgot you were here. How’s your day?” Thomas turns his head against the wall to look at his partner. James is looking at him with concern.

“Thomas?” He asks. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. There’s a small gangster holding a gun in my face, but I’m okay, you?” Thomas says. Immediately, James' worried countenance drops.

“You’re okay.” He leans his face into the wall. “I could go for some popsicles, though.”

“We’re _trying_ ,” Martha says in Thomas’ ear. “We can’t find a good entry point and the building’s landlord is being uncooperative.” Meanwhile, Hamilton is looking at Thomas through narrowed eyes again.

“That’s the second time you two have brought up…” Hamilton’s eyes widened. “Oh _shit_. John, hold the gun.” Hamilton tosses the pistol at Laurens, who’s busy looking through Lafayette’s hair for more wounds, and only barely catches it. Thomas doesn’t get a chance to move before the muzzle is on him again and Hamilton’s running his hands up and down Thomas’ body anyway.

“Woah, woah,” Thomas says, “Take me to dinner first.” Hamilton responds by using the top of his head to slam into Thomas’ jaw, snapping Thomas’ head back and against the wall. He’s seeing stars and groaning when Hamilton reaches behind him and pulls the radio pack from under Thomas’ blazer.

“You fuckers,” Hamilton growls. He grabs Thomas’ hair and pulls his head down roughly. Thomas has a thought about making Hamilton pay for his next salon trip as Hamilton digs the earpiece out of his ear. Hamilton throws the pack and earpiece onto the floor. In a flash, James’ have joined them and Hamilton grabs the gun from John. He fires four rounds, two into each pack, and steps on what remains. The gunshots sent shooting pain through Thomas’ skull and his ears ring in the aftermath.

“Oh, come on,” Thomas wines, “those are _expensive_!”

“ _Do you think I give a_ shit?” Hamilton explodes, whirling on Thomas, gun still in hand.

“ _Merde_ , Alex,” Lafayette says, lowering his hands from his ears. James takes the opening, pushing himself off the wall and into Lafayette’s stomach. Lafayette isn’t ready for it, and James manages to wrestle the gun out of his hands before Laurens is on him. Laurens picks the smaller man up by the waist and slams him into the floor. He quickly pins James, straddling him and twisting James’ arm until he drops the gun. James is face-down into the floor now, Laurens leveling the gun at the back of his head.

“Nice try,” Thomas drawls. James grunts in response. There’s a moment of silence, no one sure how to proceed. Washington clears his throat.

“Are you boys finished?” He asks, swishing a mostly finished glass of wine around in one hand. “Because there are large black vans outside and people in body armor climbing out of them.” Washington is leaning on the wall next to the window, looking sideways out the blinds he’s drawn shut.

“Do you think they heard the gunshots?” Hamilton asks, with something akin to fear in his voice. Washington nods.

“I’ve been watching them. They heard the gunshots.”

“ _Shit!_ ” Hamilton yells. Washington levels a glare at him, but Hamilton is worked up now. “They probably think these two are dead and are going to come bursting through the windows and-”

A ringing interrupts him, the chirping of the American national anthem playing from Lafayette’s direction. Everyone’s eyes are on the Frenchman as he pulls a phone out of his pants pocket.

“The number is blocked,” Lafayette says.

“It’s probably them,” Laurens replied, nodding at James. Lafayette looks at Washington. There is a thick silence as Washington contemplates the phone in Lafayette’s hand. The Star Spangled Banner continues to play in bright, chirping tones, the only noise in the room. Just as the song is coming to a close, Washington nods.

“Pick it up,” he says. Lafayette presses down on the screen and lifts the phone to his face.

“Hello?” He asks, swallowing. Thomas makes eye contact with James as Lafayette listens to the other person on the line. Lafayette lowers the phone and says: “They want to be on speaker. They wish to speak with all of us.” Washington nods again, and Lafayette presses the screen and holds it out. “You’re on speaker,” Lafayette says.

“Thank you,” Louis’ voice, small and quiet comes through. Lafayette mashes the volume button and cups his hand around the speaker. “I’m Louis Capet, but you can call me Louis.” Louis pronounces is name in the French manner, _Louie_. “First things first. How are Thomas and James?” Washington nods again and Thomas clears his throat.

“Hey, Louis. We’re both okay. Well, we’re at gunpoint, James is on the floor, and I’m bleeding slightly, but otherwise okay,” Thomas says.

“James?” Louis asks.

“I’m here,” James grunts, his voice muffled from his position on the floor.

“Okay, good. That’s great. I was talking to Lafayette earlier, but I’m afraid I don’t know the rest of you?” Louis tilts his voice up. Washington nods and Lafayette speaks.

“John, Alex and George.”

“George?” Louis asks. Lafayette hesitates again, and Washington steps forward.

“Washington. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Capet.”

“Pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Washington.” If Louis is surprised to know that Washington is in the room, his voice doesn’t show it. “I’d like to discuss some things face-to-face with you if you don’t mind.”

“Actually, I do mind,” Washington says. Louis lets out a good-natured chuckle as if he was listening to a bad joke from a coworker.

“So, over the phone it is. What can _I_ do for you to get you to send Thomas and James down to me unharmed?”

Washington folds his hands in front of his face. “I want two things,” he says, and waits.

“Alright, wh-”

“One,” he says, interrupting Louis, “I want a guarantee that me and my boys are walking out of here. Two, medical attention for my boys Agent Jefferson managed to injure.” Washington presses his lips to his knuckles as he waits for Louis’ reply.

“Well, we can send medical supplies in pretty soon, but any medical professionals won’t be able to come up,” Louis says. “As for the other thing...I’d have to talk to my superiors.”

“Understandable,” Washington says.

“May I inquire as to the medical state of Thomas and James?” Louis asks. Washington looks up at Laurens, who starts.

“Oh, uh. They’re fine. The tall one-”

“Thomas,” Louis corrects,

“Thomas, yeah,” Laurens says, “He’s got a little laceration on his head, and there’ll probably be a bump or two, but he’s fine.”

“Fucking shame,” Hamilton says. Laurens shoots him a look.

“Alex,” Washington warns.

“He broke my _damn_ nose!” Hamilton gestures to his face. Thomas wonders if Louis can hear Hamilton’s outburst.

“Calm down, you’ll still be pretty,” Laurens says.

“Who’s got the broken nose?” Louis asks, feigning innocence. It’s only because Thomas knows him so well that he can hear the contained laughter in his voice.

“Alex,” Laurens says.

“So you must be John,” Louis says.

“Uh, yeah.” Laurens ducks his head as if embarrassed he gave up his identity.

“So we have Thomas’ injury, Alex’ nose, and…?” Louis asks.

“What does it matter?” Hamilton shouts, probably so Louis can hear him on speaker.

“I just want to send up all the right supplies, alright?” Louis says. “I’m talking to a medic right now. They’re assembling something based on what you tell me.”

“Alex has another laceration, and Laf’s got a million small ones. Can you send up some gloves and tweezers? I’ll need to pick some glass out of his cuts.” Laurens says. They can hear Louis repeat the information, and there’s a pause.

“Alright, here’s what we’ve got so far…” and Louis rattles off a list of medical supplies while Laurens listens intently. When Louis reaches the end of the list, he asks if they want anything more. Laurens thinks for a moment, but says no.

“Great. Glad we have that sorted,” Louis says. “How do you want to get this? We were thinking we would send an Agent up to your door and you could just grab it.”

“No,” Washington says immediately. “No direct hand-offs.”

“Alright. We could drop it off and walk away.”

“How do we know you’ll really walk away?” Hamilton asks.

“Don’t most apartments come with a peephole?” Louis asks. Lafayette clears his throat.

“No, not mine.” Thomas furrows his brow, there’s obviously a peephole on this side of the door--oh. The flag on the other side must cover it up.

“Well, then. You’ll just have to trust me,” Louis says.

“Fuck that,” Hamilton spits.

“I’m inclined to agree, _fuck that_ ,” Lafayette says. Laurens nods his agreement. Washington pauses.

“Ultimately, it is your choice,” Louis says, “but if you say no...I really hope Alex doesn’t have a sinus or eye injury.”

“What?” Hamilton asks. “My _nose_ is broken.”

“Yes, and sometimes broken noses can mess up your sinus cavities or injure your eyes,” Louis says.

“John?” Hamilton asks.

“Yeah, he’s right,” Laurens says, voice suddenly hoarse as he spins around and starts frantically scanning Alex’s face. “But I can’t tell, not without an x-ray.” Hamilton’s eyes widen, his free hand flying to his still leaking nose. Thomas isn’t a medical expert, but he doesn’t think that this long of a bleed is a good thing. “Don’t touch it!” Laurens admonishes.

“So, do you want the supplies?” Louis asks.

“Alex?” Washington asks, after a beat of silence. Hamilton, breathing a little frantic, is still holding his nose. He swallows, taking a shaking breath.

“I think...I’ll be okay. I’m fine,” he says, slowly lowering his hand from his face.

“Then no, we’re fine,” Washington says. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Capet.”

“Are you su--”

“If you would please,” Washington interrupts, “do speak to your superiors. I would like to sleep in my own bed tonight, thank you.” And with that, Washington takes Lafayette’s phone and hangs up. A silence settles on the group.

“Welp, that was a thing,” Laurens says, lowering his face into his hands.

“I told you, screwed three ways to Sunday.” Hamilton says, quietly “They’re not going to just let us go. That’s not how this ends.”

All of everyone’s previous bravado disappears. Lafayette deflates, slinking behind the bar and starts to drink directly from a bottle of Jack Daniels. Laurens asks for a Sam Adams. Lafayette pulls out three bottles for him.

“We’re so fucked,” Laurens says, popping the lid off with one hand and taking a swig.

“Can I have alcohol?” Thomas asks. He gets nothing but glares. Washington still somehow looks like a stone wall. Thomas cannot begin to guess what’s going on in his mind. Washington catches him looking. He sighs, shaking his head.

“I thought you sounded too good to be true,” he says. Thomas chuckles.

“It was going extremely well for me too, so…” he trails. He’s hoping for a laugh. Getting these guys to like him even a little might help Louis out. But Washington’s expression darkens.

“Hamilton,” he commands. The man in question smiles.

“With pleasure, sir.” Hamilton smirks at Thomas. For a second, Thomas is terrified that Hamilton is going to pull the trigger, send him directly to the afterlife; go not pass ‘Go,’ do not collect two hundred dollars. Instead, Hamilton winds his gun hand up and swings. It connects, the muzzle of the gun hitting Thomas on the temple, just below where he’s bleeding from. There’s a blinding flash of pain, then nothing but inky blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic's over, everyone go home. RIP Thomas.
> 
> I joke I joke. I'm not killing anyone _this_ early.
> 
> See you Saturday


	7. How To Salvage A Relationship Destroyed By Lies? More Lies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James manages to keep a straight face through most of this and I'm pretty impressed myself.

“Thomas, _Thomas!”_ Someone is calling for him.

“Holy shit, holy fuck I--I-- _shitshitshitshit_ ,” comes another voice. Or is it another voice? Thomas can’t place where it’s coming from. It all sounds like it’s coming from everywhere at once.

“Alex, calm down,” someone says. The voices are all muffled.

“I killed him, _holy fuck,_ he’s de-”

“Thomas,” the first voice says again. He knows it’s the first one because it’s much closer than the others. His head is pounding. The stench of vomit hits his nose. Something’s patting him on the face, gently. Thomas moans, _five more minutes_.

“He made a noise, _he made a noise!_ ” Someone--the third? Is it someone else?--says.

“I didn’t kill him?” The second one, definitely the second one, says.

“Thomas, you need to open your eyes. Thomas, please,” the first voice says. It’s kind but worried. Though it feels like a million needles in his face, Thomas complies. At first, the light is blinding. His head is _screaming_. He wants to shut his eyes again.

“No, no, gotta keep your eyes open, come on.” The face patting intensifies. Thomas tries to move away from the contact. The impacts are sending ripples of fire across his face. He opens his eyes again, forcing them open all the way. The light is all he can see for a moment, but then a dark, blurry shape begins to form. It separates into two, slowly coming into focus.

“Thomas, can you hear me?” One of the voices says. Thomas has lost track of which is which. The shapes are solidifying into faces. They’re still blurry, but Thomas recognizes…

“James?” He asks. His own voice sounds strangely distant, despite the intense reverberations he feels in his skull. “What--where am I?” The stranger’s face frowns. James looks concerned. _About what_ , Thomas wonders.

“Lafayette’s apartment. Can you tell me what day it is?” James asks. Thomas thinks for a moment, but there’s nothing in his mind but static.

“I...what day is it?” He asks. He doesn’t know. James will.

The second face talks: “Hey, now, can you follow my finger?” But Thomas can’t see a finger. He frowns. What kind of question is that if he can’t--oh, wait, there it is...what was he doing again?

“Where am I?” He asks.

“Shit,” the second face says, then disappears. “He’s got one hell of a concussion.”

“How do you know?” James asks.

“He can’t focus, his pupils are two different sizes, he vomited, do you want me to go on?”

“How hard did you hit him, Alex?” Someone asks. The voices are slowly becoming clearer.

“I didn’t--oh god, oh _fuck_.” _That_ voice cuts off, the sound of heavy, panicked breathing follows. Thomas feels concerned. Alex has a concussion or something. Thomas isn’t sure. He’s very tired. The smell of vomit is getting stronger and his stomach heaves at it. The light hurts his eyes.  He shuts them. A nap sounds really good right now.

“No, Thomas, hey!” James says, almost yelling, “Don’t fall asleep, you gotta stay awake.”

“ _Why_?” Thomas wines. “I’m really tired.”

“I know, Thomas, but you _have_ to stay awake.” James is gently shaking him. Thomas opens his eyes and tries to give him a withering glare. Fuck James for not letting him nap. But James isn’t even looking at him anymore. “He needs medical attention, now,” he says, talking to someone else. The reply is muddled, but the deep voice is slightly familiar.

“Hate to say it boss, but yeah,” says the second voice, which is also familiar now. _Lucy_? _Laren_? Laurens. It’s John Laurens. Who is John Laurens? Thomas can’t quite remember. “We might have a dead man on our hands, otherwise.”

“Oh, so I really did kill him. Didja hear that, Laf?” The second voice says, “I killed him.” That’s… the name is just there...Ham? Turkey? Jesus, he was tired. And nauseous, but mostly tired.

“James, can I please just take a nap?” Thomas asks.

“No, Thomas,” James says, patting his cheek again. “Washington, please, he needs help.” The deep rumble come again, and James looks down at Thomas. Thomas doesn’t like how troubled James looks. If him taking a nap really upsets James this much, Thomas figures he’ll just have to stay awake.

“Hey, James,” Thomas says, “I won’t go to sleep if you don’t want me too.”

“Good, Thomas. I’d really like that.” James smiles gently.

“All you gotta do is ask. You’re my best friend, you know that, yeah?” Thomas asks. James takes his hand and squeezes.

“Of course I know,” James says. Laurens is speaking again, but Thomas pays him no attention.

“You’ve been my best friend since...how long have we been friends?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years. Jesus. How long is that?”

“A real long time, Thomas.” James says. He’s squeezing his hand really hard now. It's a little uncomfortable, but James still looks distressed. Thomas knows how useful squeezing something real tight can be, so he lets James do it. Suddenly, his stomach twists. James pushes his head to the side and Thomas vomits, adding to the pile that was already there. His vision swims and he groans.

“James, where am I?”

“Lafayette’s apartment.”

“Who’s Lafayette?”

“The man who owns this apartment.”

“Oh, okay,” Thomas says. James squeezes his hand one last time and lets it drop.

“Looks like we really are going to be doing this like Richmond.”

“Cool.” Thomas smiles. “Who’s Richmond?” He asks, but James is turned away from him now.

“Washington, you need to listen to me,” James is saying. “No, don’t interrupt me. I know we got off on the wrong foot. That’s our fault. But we really do want to help you. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Yeah? Well, this situation is kind of like that. I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Washington. We--Thomas, my team and I-- all know that the gang underworld isn’t going to just stop if you take out a few key players. People are just going to step up and fill those roles. You arrest one guy, three are ready to take his place.

“And on a list of people we really don’t want in power, George King is number one. We would _really_ like it if he was off the streets. But just arresting King and letting it go means _anyone_ could take his place. Someone who’s leagues worse than King. So we decided to pick someone to support, someone to take King’s place. We chose _you_ , Washington.

“It makes sense, right? You already hate the guy. You know what it’s like to live under his rule and you’ve told him to fuck off. Everyone knows that you’re fighting him. No one thinks you’re going to win, but what if you _do_? Think about it. King’s gone and you and your boys rule New York City. Thomas here was going to _help_ you. He was going to give you whatever you wanted; drugs, money, weapons. Anything you needed to win your little revolution.

“But now? We still want to help you, our plan hasn’t changed. You’re going to have to provide a couple of things for us, now that you know we’re here and helping you out, but our offer stays the same. The government is willing to help you win, Washington. All you gotta do is say yes.”

“And what if I say no?” The deep voice asks.

“We leave, find someone else to back. Someone will take our help. You’ll watch them skyrocket to power while you trail behind. That is if King hasn’t wiped you out by then. He came close, didn’t he? In Safe Harbors. He came real close to having your head on a platter. Washington, we’re offering you a huge advantage.”

There is a silence. Thomas isn’t sure how long it lasts, his head is spinning. James has one hand on his chest but is staring at something Thomas can’t see. He wonders how anyone can see anything with this blinding light in their faces.

“You can’t seriously be considering this, sir,” Laurens says.

“I think it’s a good idea,” someone else says, the French accent making it a little hard to understand.

“Laf!” Laurens says incredulously.

“What would you need?” The same, deep rumbling voice says. Thomas finally manages to put a name to it, Washing Machine. No, that’s wrong. Something about that seems...off.

“You’d need to accept one of us--Thomas, me, _someone_ \--into the Sons. We’d have to know what you’re doing, and be a part of your decision making. We’d need a guarantee that person would be _safe_. And you can’t lie to us. And you need to let me get Thomas to a doctor. _Now_.”

“I don’t need a doctor, James. I’m perfectly _fine_ ,” Thomas protests. James pats his chest.

“Of course you don’t. Washington?” James asks. Thomas picks up his head to see who he’s talking to. It’s spinning, _everything’s_ spinning. Thomas lays back down, regretting his past decision to move. There’s a silence. James’ hand tenses, bunching the fabric of Thomas’ shirt in a fist.

“Alright. Call your Mr. Capet, get Agent Jefferson a medic. We’ll hash out the details.”

Laurens erupts into shouts, but James lets out a breath and his hand relaxes. He turns back to Thomas. “Did you hear that, Thomas?”

“I don’t need a medic,” Thomas grumbles. James is already pulling out his phone.

“Someone still needs to look at Alex’s nose.” The French voice says. James nods, the phone pressed to his ear.

“Louis, yeah, you’re not gonna believe what just happened up here,” James says, no small amount of relief in his voice. “No, no everyone’s still alive. They’re willing to talk to us though, we’re going to set up a Richmond situation...Yeah, but listen. Come on up here, bring Martha and some paramedics. Thomas has got one hell of a concussion, and we’ve still got that broken nose that needs looked at…. Yeah, you’ll know it. He’s painted a giant French flag on the outside. Can’t miss it.”

Thomas smiles into the lights, starts to giggle. “There's a giant French flag on the door,” he says to James’ questioning look. “France is so fucking cool. It's got _Paris_ and _Nice_ and-”

“Gotta go, he's rambling about France. Get the medics here ASAP.” James shoves his phone back into his pocket. Thomas is still talking, his hands starting to flail about as he describes the Eiffel Tower. James grabs them and forces them to his sides.

“-And the _food_! My god, the best macaroni and cheese I've ever had and vanilla ice cream--hey James? Can we get ice cream?”

“I'm sure you can get some at the hospital, Thomas,” James is smiling now, looking at the door as it swings open. Thomas looks up. Martha is upside down, looking down at him.

“Martha! What are you doing here?” Thomas’ eyes are glued on her as medics kneel by his side. His brows furrow. “Where is here?” One of the medics looks up at James.

“Yeah, he's asked like, four times,” James says. The medic nods, and tells the other one to stabilize Thomas’ head and neck. Before Thomas can complain about people touching his hair, he's being lifted onto a stretcher. The movement sends pain shooting through his head, and his vision blacks out again. Just before Thomas passes out, he wonders if James is going to be mad at him for falling asleep.

—————

Thomas wakes up to the worst headache he's ever had--and he suffers from migraines. He knows what he's talking about when he's whining to James in the hospital room.

“Take it from me, never get hit with the broad side of a gun. I don't recommend it,” Thomas is saying, bunching his bed sheet in his hands. He's sitting up, waiting on lunch. He's really hungry, he hasn't eaten since before he walked into _The Frenchman_ last night. James laughs.

“You don't have to tell me twice,” he says. James’ laugh is quiet, a subdued chuckle. Thomas grins, but his smile turns into a wince as his head throbs. James’ smile falls.

“How are you feeling, for real?”

Thomas considers the question. “It’s like the worst migraine I’ve ever had.” James is silent for a moment.

“Maybe you should go back to Virginia, then,” he says. “Go home, get rest.” Thomas furrows his eyebrows.

“Doc says I can go back to work when I feel like it.”

“Thomas, concussions are nothing to laugh at. Another major injury could cost you your life.”

“So I won’t get injured,” Thomas says. “I’m staying here, James.”

“I’m just saying-”

“I’ll be fine. Consider the matter settled.”

“If Director Farnese finds out-”

“If no one tells him, he won’t find out.”

James opens his mouth to speak when a nurse comes in with food. Thomas digs into the pudding as the nurse asks him basic questions. She has him repeat the basic cognitive assessment he did when he first woke up, nods approvingly, then disappears.

“This tastes like shit,” Thomas says, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth.

“It's hospital food, Thomas. What do you expect?” James asks.

“Only the best cuisine for us sick, injured and infirm,” Thomas says, feigning offense. James shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

“Maybe I should call the nurse to run those logic tests again,” he says. “You do have three separate concussions.”

“Minor, James, minor.” Thomas shakes his spoon at his partner. James raises an eyebrow.

“You started ranting about the glories of France.”

“I do that anyways. If anything, you should have taken that as a good sign.” Thomas finishes the pudding. He eyes his soup warily, but the growling in his stomach wins out.

“Speaking of that, I've got a question,” James says. Thomas nods and he continues: “After you and Hamilton left and we got things sorted with Washington, Lafayette asked me if you had actually been to France or if it had been the concussion talking. I told him that you had actually studied in France for a year and you were fluent in French. Then Laurens got this mortified look on his face and Lafayette started mocking him in French but wouldn't tell me why.”

Thomas grins into his soup. “Laurens called me cute and teased Lafayette about taking me home for a one night stand, all in French.”

James' eyes light up. “You gotta tell Friedrich and Ben about that. They'll get a hoot out of that.”

“Aw, man. I wish I could have seen Laurens’ face.” Thomas imagines the freckled man’s shock and horror upon learning that Thomas was bilingual. He laughs at the cartoonish picture in his head. He shakes his head, as if to clear this image, then regrets it. Sudden movements still leave his head spinning. The doctors said that he was _should_ be fine, to stay off electronics as much as possible and not to drive--Thomas was more pissed about that one--and time would heal the injuries to his head.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt like a bitch in the meantime.

“So, you never told me,” Thomas says, “Which one of us is the lucky bastard that gets to work with Washington directly?”

James’ smile fades a little. “No one,” he says. Thomas frowns.

“You said it was going to be like Richmond. One guy in the boss’ inner circle, help ‘em take down the big boys,” Thomas sticks another spoonful of soup in his mouth, “and then pull the smaller guy apart from the inside.”

James nods. “That's the plan, yeah. But Washington doesn't completely trust us yet.”

“So how is this gonna work?” Thomas asks around the spoon in his mouth. “If we can’t get to Washington, there’s no way we can destroy the Sons.”

“We’re going to meet with one of Washington’s boys who’ll act as a go-between until Washington feels comfortable letting us all the way in.”

“You can't be serious.” Thomas pulls the spoon from his mouth. “We’ll never get them to tell us what they're doing.”

“They're going to have to. They agreed: they do something without notifying us, the deal’s off.”

“If we find out about it, you mean,” Thomas mutters. James pats him on the hand, a resigned smile of his face.

“We’re just going to have to trust each other,” he says, “work our way to the top, then start sowing distrust among the Sons. Honestly, it might be better this way. They might trust us more by the time we make it back to Washington’s inner circle ourselves.”

“I don't like it,” Thomas says.

“Neither do I,” James replies. They sit in contemplative silence, the ticking of the wall clock the only noise. Thomas grunts, pulling his hand away from James and digging angrily back into his soup. It’s thin and doesn't give him the satisfaction he needs stabbing into the bottom of the bowl.

“So who’s going to be meeting this messenger boy?” He asks. James hesitates.

“We--Washington and I--were hoping you'd do it. If you were okay to work, that is.”

Thomas chokes on his soup. “Me? _Why_?”

“Well,” James begins, “people saw you leave _The Frenchman_ with Lafayette, for one. Also, I think Washington secretly likes you.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, seriously. He complimented your bravery to risk walking into Lafayette’s apartment alone, and standing your ground against Hamilton.” James shrugs. “He said that you must be smart guy to almost pull off what you did. Not your fault Burr fucked you over.”

“ _Fuck_ Burr,” Thomas all but growls. James nods in agreement. “Fuck me for deciding to speak to him.”

“You didn't know what would happen.”

“Fuck me all the same.” Thomas rubs his eyes. “I'll do it though. Should at least be interesting.”

“Thought you'd say that,” James smiles.

“Now, who am I going to be meeting with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking wonder who Thomas is gonna end up meeting with.
> 
> You don't know how much research I did on concussions for this fic jfc.
> 
> Anyway: that's the plot. Use the Sons to destroy King then turn around betray the Sons. Wonder how that's gonna go?
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Thomas Jefferson had ice cream for the first time in France, and absolutely loved vanilla like the basic bitch he was.
> 
> Farnese refers to Charles Farnese, aka King Charles III of Spain, aka The Spanish King That Supported America Against The British During The Revolution. No one really talks bout Charles III, but he did some cool shit. He was made the Duke Of Parma at age 15, conquered and was crowned King of Naples and Sicily in 1734 at age 18, then inherited the Spanish throne from his half-brother in 1759. During his 30 year reign, he successfully helped the American colonies overthrow British rule, weakened the Church and spread enlightenment ideals. He promoted the ideas of free speech, religious freedoms and supported science and higher education. Under his rule, Spain was solidified from a few separate kingdoms and into more of a singular nation. Most people liked him, his personal life was quiet and calm and he was a pretty chill dude. He also looked like a real-life cartoon character I'm serious look up some of his portraits he's like a living animated human. He's so small and precious I want to protect him and boop his nose. All in all, he managed to keep power during a very tumultuous time and was a pretty stand-up guy during it. 
> 
> See you Saturday


	8. That Was Thomas' Favorite Shirt Too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did anyone think this was going to work out fine?

“Look at what the cat dragged in,” Hamilton says from the booth he's sitting in. Thomas glares at him, debating the actual need to sit down with the man. “Are bandages the hot new look?” Hamilton asks, smirking. Thomas still has a large gauze patch on his upper forehead from when Lafayette had slammed him into the bar.

“Well, if you’re rocking it, it’s already dead,” Thomas shoots back. Hamilton’s nose is covered in bandages. He glares, the look deadened by the fact he has to have his mouth open to breathe. He’s also got the cut on his forehead covered. Thomas can’t help the giddy satisfaction he feels looking at Hamilton’s injuries. It serves the bastard right.

“You going to sit, or stand there like an idiot?” Hamilton motions to the open booth across from him. Thomas glances around the diner, but no one’s paying attention to them. It really is a nice diner, with linoleum tiles and red pleather seating, like in old 50’s movies. There’s a buzzing from the kitchen window where someone is filling breakfast orders. Thomas sighs and slides into the booth. As he sits, he fights down a sudden dizzy spell. He folds his hands on the table in front of him, the pressure against his hands is grounding.

“So, what is this supposed to be?” Thomas asks.

“You’re not wired again, are you?” Hamilton asks, his voice dropping. Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“Like _I’m_ going to be the one to break the agreement,” he says. Hamilton’s eyes narrow.

“I’m not either,” he says.

“Good. The deal won’t be broken then.” Thomas smiles, but it’s strained.

“ _Fantastic_.” Hamilton spits. A tense silence falls, both men sizing the other up. Hamilton’s eyes are searching Thomas for who-knows-what, maybe the hint of a radio pack or some other such device.

“You’re not going to find anything. You _shot_ my radio, remember?” Thomas says. Hamilton smiles to himself and grunts. There’s a silence again, and this time Thomas decides Hamilton is going to be the one to break it. He waits, starring the brunette down. Hamilton is spared, however, as the waitress comes over to take their orders. Thomas realizes he hasn’t even looked at the menu on the table in front of him, but orders a coffee and sunny-side eggs up anyway. Hamilton asks for a coffee and just some toast. The black-haired girl smiles politely, scribbling on her notepad and leaves.

“So,” Hamilton says, “what all do you want to know?”

“Who’s who, how you’re organized, _why_ you hate King so much...Everything, basically.” The waitress comes back and pours their coffee. Hamilton waits until she’s gone before speaking again.

“That’s going to take a while.”

“Give me the cliff notes,” Thomas says, grabbing the creamer from the table and pouring multiple packets into it. The sugar follows as Hamilton rolls his eyes and drinks his coffee black.

“Washington’s the boss,” Hamilton begins, “he’s got some lieutenants and then a governor for every chapter. We hate King because he’s an asshole.” With that, Hamilton crosses his arms and sits back, apparently satisfied with his answer. Thomas lowers his coffee mug slowly, hearing it chink against the tabletop.

“Do you want to give me more details?” Thomas prompts. Hamilton shrugs.

“Not particularly,” he says with a smirk. Thomas puts his hands together and holds them up to pursed lips. He can’t believe this man. Hamilton just sits there with the same expression, looking almost innocent. Thomas lets his hands drop so they are pointed towards Hamilton and shakes his head.

“That’s not how this deal works,” Thomas says, “I need details.”

“And if I don’t give them to you?” Hamilton asks.

“I walk out of here, throw my support behind one of your enemies, and you never see me again until you’re on the other side of prison bars,” Thomas threatens. Hamilton pauses, and for a second, Thomas thinks he’s considering it. There’s a contemplative tilt to his head, a thoughtful gleam to his eye.

“I like the part about you walking out of here and me never seeing you again. What do I have to do to get that to happen?” Hamilton asks, and Thomas swears he’s almost legitimately curious.

“Beats me,” Thomas says, “I don’t particularly care for this arrangement either.”

“Then why did you even set this up in the first place?!”

“I wasn’t aware I was going to be meeting with Lexy ‘I pistol whip people for fun’ Hamilton.” Thomas stirs his coffee absentmindedly. No point getting worked up like Hamilton was, his face turning a shade of pink Thomas remembers from when he called the shorter man ‘short stack.’

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t broken my nose or been talkin’ shit, I wouldn’t have done it,” Hamilton spits. “What kind of idiot _asshole_ taunts the guys holding him at gunpoint? I’m honestly surprised someone hasn’t already shot you. In my opinion, you can take a cap in the ass and carry it all the way back to Alabama or wherever the fuck you’re from.” Hamilton takes a breath and continues, “And for another thing; you fight like a turkey without a head, wings or legs and can’t take a hit from a feather blowing in the damn breeze. It’s a wonder you made it out of childhood you p-”

“Eggs?” The waitress interrupts. Thomas nods and she puts the plate down in front of him. He smiles at her as Hamilton pouts, upset at being interrupted. He glowers at her as she puts his plate down, but she simply smiles back at Thomas.

“Thanks, darlin’,” Thomas says, and she giggles.

“No problem. Call if you need anything!” She says, not looking at Hamilton once. Hamilton’s gaze follows her, shooting daggers as she walks away.

“So, then, we’ve established we both don’t want to be here,” Thomas says, taking a bite of his breakfast. The eggs are greasy and don’t have any salt to them. He reaches for the salt shaker as he talks. “Why don’t you just tell me what I want to know, and we can get out of here.” Hamilton’s head snaps back around and he thumps down into his seat.

“What do you want to know?” He grumbles.

“Who are these ‘lieutenants’ and what do they do? And what about your governors?”

Hamilton sighs. “There are five lieutenants,” he says, “Me,” Alex holds up his middle finger, and Thomas frowns. “Laurens, Lafayette,” Alex is ticking off more fingers now, “Benny A and Benny T. Laurens and Lafayette run _The Fighting Frenchman_ together, but Laurens handles a lot of the businessy things and Lafayette handles our PR, so to speak. Benny A runs security and manages our boys. Benny T and I do...things.” Hamilton says without room for argument. Thomas argues anyway.

“Things?”

“ _Things,_ yeah.”

“What kind of _things_?”

“ _Things,_ things.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Hamilton, look. You _have_ to be honest with me. We’re not going to get anywhere if you’re not.”

“I am being honest!” Hamilton protests, slamming his already empty mug onto the table.

“Then stop omitting important facts!”

“They’re not _important_ facts.”

“Stop omitting facts at all then.” Thomas counters. Hamilton glares. _If looks could kill_ , Thomas thinks.

“I help run communications, smuggle things, handle money, whatever needs to be done. Benny T…” Hamilton pauses, glances around and leans forward. He motions for Thomas to come closer, and Thomas does, leaning carefully over his meal so his shirt doesn’t fall into his eggs. Hamilton gets within inches of Thomas. He leans up and puts his mouth up to Thomas’ ear. “Benny T does some… _things!_ ” Hamilton shouts the last word, laughing as Thomas jerks backward and almost knocks his coffee off the table. Thomas glares at him, feeling the liquid egg on his right elbow soaking through his shirt.

“Fuck you,” Thomas says, snatching a napkin from the dispenser on the table. Hamilton’s prank has caused his headache to flare. He glares at the egg on his shirt and start to dab it up, pretending it’s Hamilton’s face and ends up using more force than he likely needs. Hamilton is cackling, bent over in his seat with laughter. The other patrons at the diner are looking at them and Thomas reaches over to shove Hamilton’s shoulder.

“Oh man,” Hamilton says, sitting up and wiping a goddamned tear from his eye, “You fucking fell for it.”

Thomas glances around the diner. All eyes are on them. “Hamilton, stop,” he says, lowering his voice.

“The look on your face, _holy shit_.”

“ _Hamilton_ ,” Thomas all but growls. Hamilton finally stops and looks around when he catches Thomas’ quick glances.

“What? Can’t stand a little _attention_?” Hamilton says, smirking. “Wouldn’t have thought it, considering those jeans you were wearing last night. You had it _aaaalllll_ \--”

“Hamilton would you _shut up_ ,” Thomas says. Something about his tone finally brings Hamilton down, his smirk falling. “You are aware of what we’re talking about, right? In _public_?” Thomas whispers.

“Alright then, stop asking ‘bout B.T, yeah?” Hamilton’s voice also drops to a whisper. “B.T. isn’t someone we talk about in _public_.”

Thomas considers this for a moment, still leaning halfway across the table. He scans Hamilton’s face and decides, that _yes_ , whatever ‘Benny T’ does isn’t safe to talk about in a diner. With thoughts of contract killing and other unspeakable things, Thomas asks one last question:

“What’s his full name, at least?”

“Benjamin Tallmadge,” Hamilton says, voice barely above a whisper. Thomas nods and leans back, retracting his hand. He can still feel the stares of everyone around him. Hamilton glances around again. “Don’t worry everyone,” he calls, “Just tried to prank my boyfriend. Didn’t go so well, as you probably could tell.”

Hamilton earns a chuckle or two and people turn back to their meals, but Thomas still feels unsettled. It doesn’t matter that their heads are turned, or that they’re engaged in conversation, he still feels like someone is _listening_. He can’t quite shake it, and can’t stop himself from one more glance around. He catches the waitress’ eye, and she gives him a little eyebrow wiggle. Somehow, that grounds him slightly, enough to force himself to turn his attention back to Hamilton.

“So,” Thomas says, clutching his coffee mug tightly, “What’s Benny A’s name?”

“Benedict Arnold,” Hamilton says.

_Arnold,_ Father Monk says in Thomas’ head, but Thomas shakes it off. There’s no way, Washington’s too smart. _Still though, weird coincidence_ , Thomas’ brain supplies.

Hamilton is talking again--A common occurrence Thomas is coming to find--about the ‘governors’. A governor runs a district or neighborhood but reports to Washington, or so Thomas understands. He only catches a few names, _Henry Knox, Philip Schuyler, Nathaniel Green_ , until Hamilton’s words get lost between his fast speech and Thomas’ mounting distractions. The name _Arnold_ is still tugging at him when Hamilton snaps his fingers directly in front of Thomas’ face.

“Hello? Earth to Mr. Southern Belle, Earth to--”

Thomas grabs Hamilton’s hand and pushes it out of his face. Thomas crinkles his nose at the smirk he gets.

“If you’re not going to listen to me, then what’s the point of these meetings?” Hamilton asks.

“I was listening,” Thomas protests. Hamilton raises an eyebrow. Thomas wants to smack it off his face.

“I sure hope you were, I’m not repeating anything.”

“I don’t need you to,” Thomas snaps.

“Name the governors then.” Hamilton sneers. He's calling Thomas’ bluff, but Thomas decides he's not going to have it.

“Are you a child?” Thomas mocks. “Name the governors or you're not a real Sons of Liberty fan?”

“It's a reasonable question.”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, you're an asshole, so your opinion doesn't matter.”

“You're a bastard, so yours matters even less.” Thomas had meant it as a simple comeback, just another jab. But Hamilton’s sneer falls, his face turns an ugly shade of red and his knuckles turn white around the fork he's holding.

“I am _not_ a bastard,” Hamilton spits, his eyes blown wide in rage. “Don't you fucking dare call me that!”

_Hit a nerve, did I_? Thomas files this away in his mind. He should let it go, but Thomas’ mouth is already working faster than his brain.

“Methinks he doth protest too much.” Thomas smirks as Hamilton’s face contorts in anger.

“Shut the fuck up,” Hamilton says, voice tight.

“Make me,” Thomas taunts. Hamilton stews, his shoulders drawing in tight. He looks down at the mug in his hands. He purses his lips and twists around in the booth.

“Hey, can I get some more coffee?” He asks, and their waitress smiles.

“‘Course darling,” she says, grabbing the coffee pot from the counter. She comes over and fills Hamilton’s mug, smiling amicably. Thomas is still smirking, and Hamilton still looks like he’s about to burst. “There you go,” the waitress says, topping off the mug, “anything el--”

Hamilton grabs his mug and throws the coffee directly onto Thomas. It splashes across his face and chest, the steaming liquid already burning into his skin. The waitress jumps back with a gasp, clutching the coffee to her chest as if Hamilton is reaching for it to make another attack. But he doesn’t. Instead, he slams his hands on the tabletop and stands.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he spits, “how can one person be so _fundamentally_ horrid? And I was worried about accidentally killing you. We’re done here.” With that, Hamilton throws his now empty mug at Thomas, striking him directly in the chest. He gets out of the booth, pushing past the waitress roughly.

“What are you all looking at?” He snaps at the other diner patrons as he stomps out, the door slamming open and shut behind him. As he passes Thomas in the window, he shoots him the bird and stalks off. Thomas watches him disappear down the street, feeling his hair drip with coffee.

“Towel?” The waitress offers, handing Thomas the white cloth from her apron. He takes it and rubs the coffee from his face. “Are you burned?”

“No, don’t think so. Not seriously anyway,” Thomas mutters, looking down at his shirt. This one was expensive and _really_ soft. The regular diner chatter starts up again as Thomas digs out his wallet.

“If I were you, I’d start looking for a new boyfriend,” the waitress says. Thomas snorts and throws about thirty dollars on the table.

“No kidding,” he says, “This should cover everything.” He stands, forgetting about the mug in his lap. It tumbles and hits the floor before Thomas can catch it. He hears it shatter beneath the table. He throws another ten dollars onto the table and carefully extracts himself from the booth, ignoring the telltale crunch beneath his feet. “Tell your boss I’m sorry.”

Thomas tries not to react to the questioning looks the other customers are giving him. He walks out of the diner, each footfall sending spikes of pain through his skull, and out onto the street. Immediately, the red Crown Victoria in the parking lot roared to life and pulled up to the street. Thomas yanks the passenger side door open and site down.

“So, how’d it go?” Louis asks, innocently, from the backseat. James snorts as he pulls away. Thomas glares over his shoulder at Louis.

“Hamilton is paying for my dry-cleaning,” Thomas mutters, slouching down into his seat. Louis reaches up and pats him on the shoulder.

“Aww, don’t pout big guy, we’ll get you another playmate.”

“Oh, shut up.” Thomas opens the glove compartment and digs out a bottle of Tylenol. He swallows two with nothing but spit and glares out of the window.

“What did he tell you, though?” James asks, eyes glued to the road. Thomas explains what Hamilton had told him as James drives three blocks away, turns around and comes right on back to David’s Diner. He pulls up next to the restaurant and Sally comes out, sans her waitress uniform. She takes one look at Thomas and breaks out into laughter.

“Shut up, Sally. Not in the mood,” Thomas growls. Sally just laughs harder as she climbs into the backseat. She pulls her black hair out of it’s bun and shakes it loose.

“What happened? I’m no good at reading lips.” Louis asks.

\--------------

“He threw coffee at you?” Friedrich says, guffawing. Thomas glowers, his way blocked by the SWAT commander and Ben.

“Yes, now, may I _please_ get to my room so I can shower?” Thomas asks. Neither Friedrich or Ben move.

“Aw, is Tommy upset his new boyfriend broke up with him?” Ben teased.

“Only managed one date, poor boy,” Friedrich says, “you must really have scared him off.”

“I swear to _god_ …!” Thomas says, shoving his way between them. Friedrich is a rock, but Ben is much physically weaker, shuffling his feet to avoid falling to the wall.

“He really is upset. Must have liked him a lot,” Friedrich says. Thomas ignores him, furiously swiping his hotel key and throwing his door open when he sees the green light. James is already inside, having avoided Friedrich and Ben’s taunting. Thomas rummages around in one of his suitcases and pulls out his shower bag.

“...yeah, okay. I’ll talk to him...No, I’m sure it’s fine.” James holds up one finger as Thomas is about to slip into their shared bathroom. He’s talking to someone on the phone. Thomas lets out a sigh, and pulls of his shirt. He examines the coffee and egg stains with a weary eye. “...You’re welcome. I’m glad you called. Get this all worked out.” James turns away when Thomas makes a ‘wrap it up’ sign. Thomas rolls his eyes and throws his shirt onto his bed. He’s got a stain-stick somewhere. He’ll deal with it after the shower. What’s an extra thirty minutes when it’s all already dry?

“James, I smell like bad coffee. It’s in my hair, hurry it up or let me shower,” Thomas complains. James rolls his eyes.

“...No, he’s fine. No burns...I’m glad too….mhm….We’ll call you back, okay?...Good talking to you too, Mr. Washington.” James hangs up his phone and tosses it on his bed. “That was Washington.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Thomas says, patience running thin. James continues:

“He apologized for Hamilton’s behavior--”

“A habit I’m sure he’s formed.”

“ _And_ asked for a second chance,” James says.

“Tell him to send anyone else and I’m more than willing.” Thomas says, moving to shut the door. The look on James’ face stops him though. “What?”

“I told him that’s what you’d likely say. He said that there’s no one else _to_ send.”

“Laurens or Lafayette.” Thomas counters.

“He says they can’t, not if we want regular meetings. They’re too busy doing other things.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess, he doesn’t want anyone else but me either.”

“Thomas...” James says.

“So that’s a yes.”

“He knows it’s his side that screwed this up. He’s trying to fix it. You can’t shut down communication.”

“But-”

“No buts. This is our best shot, isn’t it? If you go back, it’s a sign of good faith. We’re willing to forgive. _And_ , it's not us begging him for another meeting. Washington’s desperate, Thomas. You can’t throw this away.”

James is right, Thomas knows. He sighs and rubs his eyes. “Let me shower first, okay?”

“I’ll call him back, set something up.”

“You do that,” Thomas says, shutting the door. He looks at himself in the mirror, hair matted from the coffee. He looks like a limp poodle. He heard James speaking faintly from the other side of the door. Thomas leans against the mirror and shuts his eyes.

Just what has he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100+ Kudos in seven chapters?? Thank you so much!
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Now that we're starting to hit the main bulk of the story, I just wanted to let you all know that feedback and comments are always appreciated. I write fanfic to get better as a writer and I can't do that without feedback! Be honest, okay?
> 
> See you Saturday


	9. Tylenol Can't Solve Your Problems Thomas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Adams, Benedict Arnold, maps, and copious amounts of Tylenol.

When Thomas returns to the diner, it is dinner time and Hamilton is nowhere to be seen. Sally--redressed in her uniform--got him a sandwich and an order of fries. He pushes the fries around on the plate and watches the clock, counting every minute that Hamilton was late.

Someone plays old Springsteen on the jukebox. Thomas looks over to the box, and saw Sally smiling. _Thought you’d like it_ her expression read, then she went back to her job, serving sodas to teenagers who wolf-whistle her. A protective urge twists in Thomas’ stomach, and he has to remind himself that he was on the job. He couldn’t make a scene.

 _Save that for Hamilton_ , he thinks. He is sitting in the same booth as earlier--there’s a recording device under the little condiment tray by the window. Not that he’d tell Hamilton that, nor does he need to. He silently praises New York’s one party recording laws. But the booth still smells like spilled coffee and it is giving Thomas a headache.

“ _I_ _don’t need a babysitter!_ ”

Thomas can hear Hamilton shouting from the street outside. He groans, his head pounding. He looks out the window and sees Hamilton--doing what else?--arguing with someone. The other man looked serene despite Hamilton's spit-showering, red-faced yelling. His hair stuck out at an odd angle from the side of his head, as if a gust of wind was hitting him directly in the face. He was calmly walking behind Hamilton, who was practically stomping to the diner door.

“I swear to _God_  if you follow me into this diner…!” Hamilton shouts, pushing open the diner door.

“Alexander, I am coming with you,” the man says, scanning the diner. “Washington’s orders.”

“Then go back and tell Washington that I don’t need a babysitter,” Hamilton hisses.

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly.” The man makes eye contact with Thomas and nods towards him. “That him?”

Hamilton glances at Thomas and scowls. “If it is?” Hamilton stomps over to the booth and throws himself into the seat across from Thomas. He scoots all the way to the window and pouts, crossing his arms and glaring out the window. The other man sighs and sits down next to Hamilton.

“John Adams, Washington’s second in command,” he says, offering a hand. Thomas takes it and finds Adam’s handshake to be surprisingly weak.

“Will Clark,” Thomas says with a smile. Adams retracts his hand much too quickly for a proper handshake.

“I was told your name was Jefferson,” Adams says.

“Oh?” Thomas raises an eyebrow, “by whom?”

“George,” Adams says. Thomas relaxes a little.

“Well, then, your information is correct, Mr. Adams.”

“John is fine, but don’t worry about me.” Adams looks over at Hamilton, who is currently giving him a death glare from his corner of their shared booth. “I’m just supposed to be a mediator.”

Hamilton mutters something about not needing a mediator, especially a motherfuckstick of a mediator. He’s shaking his leg under the table, looking as if he’s ready to reach over and slit Adams’ throat. Thomas can’t help but what Washington’s plan was. _Surround Hamilton with people he doesn’t like! That’ll put him in a good mood._ Adams looks at his watch.

“We’re late,” Adam says, but there is no apology in his voice.

“So you are,” Thomas replies, but there is no forgiveness in his voice.

“ _His_ fault,” Hamilton mutters, jerking a thumb in Adams’ direction. Thomas doubts it, easily imagining Hamilton throwing a hissy-fit when he was told he had to come back to the diner. Adams rolls his eyes and leans back in the booth. Thomas takes the opportunity to pull a notepad out of his pocket.

“We’ve got a few questions,” Thomas says, throwing the pad onto the table.

“Shoot,” Hamilton grumbles. Thomas does, drawing information from Hamilton slowly, painfully. It’s like pulling teeth. Hamilton takes to answering Thomas as vaguely as possible, meaning Thomas had to take time and press for every detail specifically.

“What’s your territory?”

“Neighborhoods throughout the city.”

“Where in the city?”

“Manhattan.”

“What neighborhoods?”

“Harlem, a few others.”

“List them for me.”

“Where are your manners?”

“ _Would you please_ list them for me?” He asks, false sincerity in his voice as he throws back another couple of Tylenol tablets.

When Thomas manages to cover the first page, he glances at the clock. It’s been over an hour and a half. Food has come and gone, and Thomas is exhausted. His headache has gotten progressively worse despite the Tylenol and all he wants to do is crash back at the hotel for a few days. He felt like his head had been steamrolled and covered in asphalt. Twice.

“We almost done here?” Hamilton asks.

Thomas nods. “One more question.” Hamilton huffs and drains his milkshake. “Benedict Arnold. I want to know more about him.” Hamilton’s eyes narrow.

“Why?”

_“Benedict Arnold,” Ben says, eyes glued to his computer. The three-laptop setup has been spread over the small desk in the hotel room. Thomas leans over his shoulder and watches Ben fly through page after page of data. “Do you have any more information I can use?”_

_“He’s with the Sons, might have arrest records?” Thomas’ head is spinning, he knows he shouldn’t be looking at the LED display with his multiple concussions. Ben is working much too fast for Thomas to keep up anyway, so he turns away. He watches Friedrich unpack the last of his stuff and shove it into drawers._

_“Nada, sorry,” Ben says, shoving popcorn into his mouth, “unless you’re looking for a serial litterer.” Thomas glances at the screen. This Arnold lives in queens anyway. Thomas sighs, trying to block out his growing headache. Ben spins around in his chair, wavy hair flying. He’s in one of the hotel’s soft robes. “You think ‘Benny A’ is Safe Harbors Arnold?”_

_“James does. I’m not convinced.” Thomas says, standing up straight._

_“One hell of a coincidence if it’s not,” Friedrich comments._

“Because it’s my job to know about him,” Thomas says, in too much pain to come up with a witty retort.

“What do you want to know?”

“Who is he, what does he do, where does he live, that kind of thing,” Thomas shrugs, trying to act nonchalant.

“Uh, he’s alright, I guess. He’s like, in charge of the governors.” Hamilton makes a vague hand gesture. “Don’t talk to him much. He used to run around with Green, Knox and Schuyler a lot, then Washington promoted him. Like I said, he’s alright. Kinda quiet.” Hamilton scowls. “Pretty jumpy, actually. Doesn’t speak up much. Agrees with everything the boss says.”

“So he’s loyal to Washington?” Thomas asks.

“Yeah, of course, why wouldn’t he be?” Hamilton asks, bristling. “We’d know if he wasn’t.”

“What makes you say that?” Thomas asks. Hamilton starts and Adams shoots him a glare.

“We’d know,” Hamilton insists. “He’s a shit liar.”

 _Well there you go James,_ Thomas thinks. _I was right_. But something is still nagging at him, in the back of his mind.

“Where does he live?” Thomas asks. Hamilton shrugs. Adams rolls his eyes--his favorite thing to do, Thomas thinks--and writes an address on a napkin. Thomas pulls out his phone and texts Ben the address. That should be enough for Ben to work his magic.

“What was that?” Hamilton asks, eyes flicking between Thomas and the phone in his hand. Thomas holds up one finger, and a moment later Ben comes through. Thomas turns his phone around so Hamilton can see the picture Ben had sent him.

“This him?” Thomas asks. Hamilton's eyes widen.

“What the fuck?” He breathes. “I mean, yeah, that’s him. But how did you get that so quickly?”

“Governmental databases, Lexy.” Thomas smiles, “DMV records.”

“Just from your phone?” Hamilton asks, looking at Thomas’ phone like Thomas was holding a bar of solid gold. Thomas nods, more than willing to let Hamilton believe that. Thomas looks at the picture--a slightly chubby guy with the one of the largest noses Thomas has ever seen. He turns it off and pockets his phone.

“Well, gentlemen, this has been fun,” Thomas says, standing. Thomas is fishing his wallet out of his pocket when Hamilton grabs his arm.

“Wait,” Hamilton says. Thomas raises an eyebrow. “What if I have questions for you?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Too bad,” Thomas says with a smirk. Hamilton turns red.

“What do you mean ‘too bad?’’ Hamilton snarls.

“It’s late Hamilton,” Thomas says.

“We’re not done here, sit your ass down.” Hamilton’s grip on Thomas’ wrist tightens. Thomas does not sit. “I’ve got questions.”

“Hamilton,” Thomas says, “We are the last ones here. The diner is closing.”

“I don’t care. How many feds are here?”

“I’m sure the wait staff and cooks care,” Thomas retorts.

“They can shut up. They know who owns this street,” Hamilton says. “They know who I am.”

“They know who _I_ am, Alexander,” Adam cuts in. Hamilton ignores him.

“Answer my question, Jefferson,” Hamilton says. “How many federal agents did you bring in?”

“You sure would like to know.” Thomas pulls his arm out of Hamilton’s grip.

“How many feds?” Hamilton spits each word out like they were burning peppers in his mouth. Thomas shrugs and goes to throw money on the table, but thinks better of it. Hamilton or Adams can pay, he paid for breakfast. Thomas slides out of the booth and slips his wallet into his pocket. He’s halfway out of the diner when Hamilton calls after him.

“I’ll tell Washington you aren’t cooperating. Adams will back me up. No more of your precious meetings.”

Thomas stops and looks up at the ceiling. He’s tempted to walk right out, not even respond. But James’ warning, _you can’t just throw this away_ , rings in his mind. He sighs.

“Six. There are six of us, not including SWAT.” Thomas is glad no one but Hamilton, Adams, Sally and the last remaining chef is still in the diner. This is not the conversation he wants to have surrounded by strangers.

“Is Jefferson your real name?” Hamilton asks.

“No, because I'm going to give you _two_ fake names,” Thomas drawls, rolling his eyes. Hamilton glares daggers at him.

“Are you really going to give us drugs?”

“ _Give_?” Thomas asks, “no. Not give. But we will _sell_ them to you.” Thomas glances at his watch. It’s almost 8:00. “Tomorrow, breakfast? I’ve got things to do.” Thomas doesn’t give Hamilton the chance to protest, he’s out the diner door in a flash. As he walks to the car, he can’t help glancing over his shoulder. Hamilton is glaring at him as Adams throws some money on the table. There’s a curl of satisfaction in Thomas’ chest when he waves goodbye and Hamilton scowls. Thomas throws open the passenger door of the Crown Victoria and sits down next to James.

“What are you smiling at?” James asks. Thomas hadn’t even realized he was still smirking.

“Nothing,” he says, watching Hamilton pout as they drive away. They’re going to have to circle until Sally says it is safe to come get her, and Thomas fills the time by reading James everything Hamilton told him. Sally texts him halfway through describing drug distribution routes and they head back and pick her up.

“I figure we have enough to start a map,” Thomas says. James sighs.

“You and your damn maps,” he mutters. Sally chuckles.

——————

“You and your maps,” James says, nursing a coffee in the precinct the next morning, “they're gonna be the death of you.”

Thomas smiles at him over his shoulder, putting yet another red pushpin into the large fold-out map on the wall. He'd forced James to buy one of the old-fashioned road maps of New York City, and another of just Manhattan, all for Thomas’ little pet project. Sure, it was a legitimate technique they taught in the academy, but Thomas took it to an extreme. He had a system he knew by heart, a million colors of pushpins he traveled with, and a color for every significant possible event or piece of information he might come across. He kept rolls of string, again multi-colored, for his own personal use. He even had laminated cheat sheets for those unfamiliar with his system. He had a picture of every map he had ever created carefully stored away--sorted in order of objective _perfection_.

Thomas and his maps, indeed.

“So is that ‘bright red’ or ‘blood red?’” Revere asks, looking up from the chest sheet in his hands. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Crimson, obviously. I included reference pictures for a _reason_.” Thomas points to the cluster of red pins where Safe Harbors church should be. “ _That’s_ blood red. Blood red for _deaths_.”

“Crimson for enemy turf,” Sally chimes in, not needing to look at one of the cheat sheets spread out on the table. “Light blue for friendly. Clear with colors painted on shows the boundaries between gangs.”

“Dark blue for law enforcement,” James grumbles.

“Green for money laundering,” Louis says, without missing a beat.

“Purple for drugs, type specified by shade,” Friedrich adds, walking into the room, sipping on coffee.

“Orange for the arms trade,” Martha says without looking up from her phone. “Yellow for theft.”

“And pink for prostitution,” Ben sings from the phone on the table. Thomas gasps.

“Ben! You learned my system!” Thomas grins. “He learned it, guys!”

“Naw, I just know pink. That's all _I_ need to know.”

“You are a federal agent, Benjamin Franklin.”

“Not when I'm off duty I'm not.”

As Thomas continues to bicker with Ben, Revere looks from person to person, disbelief on his face. “You know all this?!” He says, hitting the laminated paper in his hand.

“Unfortunately,” James says, draining the rest of his coffee. “Just wait until he starts adding pictures, documents, and the string.”

Revere’s eyes go wide, taking in the stacks of files and pictures Thomas has gathered on the table.

“Thanks for giving him a windowless wall, by the way. He hates it when natural light messes up his colors.” James swirls the coffee in his mug. Revere looks back at Thomas dutifully pushing crimson pins into the Manhattan map.

“I need more coffee,” he mumbles and leaves the room. Sally chuckles as he leaves, nearly running Sybil over as she came in. Sybil looks the wall up and down, watching Thomas meticulous’ construction.

“Nice map,” she says. Thomas beams at her.

“Thank you, Sybil! I'm glad _somebody_ appreciates a good map,” he adds, glaring at his fellow agents. Sybil picks up a cheat sheet and scans it. She looks back up at the map with a furrowed brow. She comes up next to Thomas and taps the purple pin denoting _The Fighting Frenchman_.

“Shouldn't that be green? _The Frenchman_ is obviously a money-laundering operation.”

Thomas frowns. “Hamilton said they used to run ecstasy through there.”

“Yeah, but do you really think they don't run dirty money through there too?” Sybil asks. Thomas considers her point for a moment and grabs a green pin.

“Do you want a job, Sybil? Be a federal agent?” Thomas pushes the pin into _The Fighting Frenchman_ next to the purple one. He grins at her, she smiles back.

“Paul needs me, sorry Agent Jefferson,” she teases. Thomas laughs.

“That he does, that he does.” Thomas puts the nearly empty crimson pin container down and steps back. It's not completed yet, Thomas still has to add the boundaries for each individual gang within King’s control, but he likes the way the colors follow the rigid lines of New York City’s grid of streets. He smiles contentedly.

“We should probably head out, Thomas,” James says, “Hamilton’s likely waiting for you at the diner.”

Thomas scowls.

—————

Thomas storms out of David’s Diner not five minutes into the meeting with Hamilton. There’s sugar in his hair and he's clutching his ruined notebook tightly.

“I hate him! I _hate_ him, James!” Thomas shouts, waving the torn notebook in the air. James rolls down his window sighing.

“Thomas…”

“Don't you _‘Thomas_ ’ me.” Thomas grips the bottom of James’ window. “I can't do it. He's insane, insufferable, and completely impossible to work with.”

“Impressive alliteration, but you still have to go back in there,” James says. Thomas’ knuckles turn pale.

“You don't understand! I walked in there, sat down and he just--he just _throws_ sugar on me. Out of _nowhere_! And he just laughs, surrounded by _dozens_ of open sugar packets, and tells me that's my punishment for being late. Meanwhile, he was _thirteen_ minutes late last night!” Thomas is yelling now, attracting the attention of passers-by on the sidewalk.

“We were twenty minutes late,” James reminds him.

“Only because he was late _first_!” Thomas hits the car door. “Let me in, we’re leaving.”

“Thomas,” James warns. Thomas huffs. “What happened to your notebook?”

“He tried to stop me from leaving by grabbing it and it ripped,” Thomas mutters.

“Well, that means he's apologetic, then. He tried to stop you,” James says to Thomas’ disbelieving look. “Just go back in and say you forgive him. Be the bigger man.”

“I don't want to be the bigger man,” Thomas wines. James rolls his eyes.

“Goodbye, Thomas.” James rolls up his window suddenly, forcing Thomas to jerk his hands away quickly.

“James! Let me in the car!” Thoma calls, knocking on the tinted window. James doesn't respond and Thomas huffs loudly. “At least let me borrow a notebook? And give me some more Tylenol?”

James rolls down his window just far enough to stick a small, spiral-bound notebook through the slot and two white capsules on top. Thomas snatches it away and the window slides shut again. Grumbling about partners who don't understand the difficulties of working with certain annoying gang members, Thomas starts to stomp back to the diner but rethinks his approach. He throws the medicine in his mouth, relaxes his shoulders and loosens his stride, strolling back in without a care in the world.

“I have decided-” Thomas says, slapping his new notebook onto the usual table, “-to forgive you for your immature little prank.”

“Was that before or after your partner locked you out of the car?” Hamilton asks.

Thomas has steam pouring out of his ears as he charges Hamilton twice the price he had originally wanted for half the cocaine. The FBI only has so much to sell, he justifies to himself, but does not deny himself the satisfaction he gets from watching Hamilton sign his life away.

——————

“Then Hamilton asked me if I enjoyed sleeping with my sister,” Thomas says, three hours later, in the car with James. They're sat outside Benedict Arnold’s apartment building, shooting the breeze, just trying to get a glimpse of the man. The DMV photo was apparently a few years old, and Thomas wants to make sure he still looked the same before bringing the photo to Father Monk.

“Yeah?” James asks, sipping on the dregs of his soda. Martha had brought them food an hour ago. The rest of the team were spread throughout the city, talking to the survivors of Safe Harbors again.

“So I told him that just because I am from the south, I am not a hick, and if I did have any sisters, she would kick him in the teeth for suggesting that.”

James let out a quiet chuckle--his version of a barking laugh. “The funny thing is I could see all six doing it too. Lizzie especially.”

“Elizabeth would keep kicking until his teeth were gone,” Thomas adds, drawing another chuckle from his best friend.

“Anne would kick him as hard as possible, then apologize and fetch him ice.”

“You’re not wrong,” Thomas responds, laughing. “Speaking of family, have you called Dolley yet?”

“The night you were in the hospital,” James responds. “She told me to tell you to stop being an idiot.”

“You didn’t tell her what happened, did you?” Thomas asks. James shakes his head.

“Of course not. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how you are.”

Thomas rolls his eyes good-naturedly, a smile on his face. Dolley was too kind, really, but she had that little kick to her. Especially when it came to Thomas. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Dolley didn’t like him. But he’d spent too many friendly dinners and evenings with James’ wife to have any bad blood between them. Thomas looks out the window, remembering Dolley’s promise to send them care packages from Virginia when the apartment door opens.

Thomas perks his head up as a short, slightly pudgy man came out of the building. He shuts the door behind him firmly and glances furtively up and down the street before making a hard left and walking briskly away. Thomas gently swats James on the shoulder. There’s no denying it, Benedict Arnold looks just like the photo they have. He’s lost a little weight since the photo was taken, his cheeks aren’t as full, but it’s him. He says this much to James, who nods.

“Good enough for you? Can we go see Father Monk now?” James asks. Thomas hesitates. Arnold is walking quickly, shoulders drawn tight. He’s shooting glances around him, behind his shoulder and down every alley he passes. A man passes him on the street and Arnold shies away from him.

“Where do you figure he’s going?” Thomas asks. James shrugs, but he’s staring Arnold down with the same intensity as Thomas is. “Do we follow him?”

After a beat, James shifts the car into drive and slowly creeps down the street after Arnold. Thomas pretends to busy himself with his phone, so if Arnold glances back maybe he won’t be suspicious. As if anyone wouldn’t be suspicious of a bright red car that’s following them slowly down the street. Thomas curses the color of the car as they crawl forward.

It’s agonizingly slow, even with Arnold speed-walking down the street in his haste to get wherever he’s going. Thomas drums his fingers on his leg, watching Arnold from his peripheral vision. Arnold jogs across an intersection and makes a left turn. James follows, speeding up a bit too much through the turn and Arnold's head snaps around to look at them.

James mutters a quiet curse and grips the wheel. He keeps moving, though, even as Arnold looks at them wide-eyed and picks up the pace. Thomas bites his lip as James speeds up ever so slightly. Arnold fixates his gaze on the ground, almost breaking into a jog. He keeps glancing over his shoulder at them, and Thomas gives up any pretense of staring at his phone. He makes eye-contact with Arnold and the man spins.

“ _I know!_ ” Arnold shouts, fear written across his face. “I’m going! I’m _going_!” Arnold turns back around and pushes through a couple on the sidewalk ahead of him. They give him confused looks and look back at Thomas and James. The man’s eyes flash, and he pulls the girl with him quickly down the street until Thomas can’t see them anymore. Thomas looks at James quizzically. James works his jaw, eyes trained on Arnold ahead of them.

Thomas glances around. The street is far from deserted, and people keep looking at him strangely. The side-long glances and the quick flick of heads away as Thomas tries to make eye-contact starts to freak him out. People keep looking at Arnold with sympathy and fear as he pushes past them.

“I don’t like this,” Thomas mutters. James grunts in agreement. Thomas doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s never been in a situation like this before. An old woman quickly shuts the curtains of her window when Thomas looks a little too long at her. “It’s almost like they’re all scared of us,” Thomas says, not moving his mouth much. James presses his lips together and just keeps following Arnold.

Then Arnold stops suddenly, reaching the door to a small condo. He’s breathing heavily and looks back at Thomas and James. James slams on the break. Arnold gestures to the door and mouths something-- _see_? James gives a curt nod and Arnold visibly relaxes. He still looks like a spring wound way too tight, but he sighs and opens the door. He glances one last time at James and Thomas before disappearing into the condo.

The moment the door shuts, James speeds away. They’re four or five blocks away before he slows down and parks beside the street. Thomas lets out a deep breath. People are still shooting them odd looks, but Thomas does not care. He puts his face in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” Thomas asks. James hums, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

“We need to go back to the precinct,” James replies, pulling back out onto the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Thomas Jefferson really liked maps.
> 
> John Adams was the second president of the United States and a piece of shit. Him and Jefferson were buddies if that says anything about John 'my-son-can't-be-gay-he's-just-worthless' Adams. John 'I-look-like-a-bad-Einstien-costume' Adams. I fucking hate John Adams, okay? Like, I'd fight John Adams in a Wendy's parking lot at 3 AM. The only good thing about John Adams was Abigail Adams and he did not deserve such a magnificent woman. Abagail Adams for president 1796.
> 
> See you Saturday


	10. And So Begins Thomas' Pattern Of Making Bad Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict Arnold makes his appearance.

James stares intently at Thomas’ map, drawing his finger along the streets they had followed Arnold down. He traces the grid carefully, making the turn and running into the wall of crimson pins.

“He was in Redcoat territory,” James muses, planting his finger on the condo Arnold had gone into. He is right, but not by much. Arnold’s apartment is solidly in Sons turf, but where he had gone was inside Redcoat lines.

“Alright, boys.” Ben’s voice comes from Thomas’ phone on the table. “Your mystery apartment belongs to... _drum roll please_ …” Thomas obligingly drums on the table. Ben held the silence for what Thomas thought was a dramatically suitable time before finishing, “Edward Shippen!”

“Who is he?” Thomas asks.

“The _wonderful_ owner of the fine condo you are so interested in is a medical student, twenty-five years old, and completely clean and boring. He goes to King’s College and interns at a local hospital.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks, Ben.” Thomas drawls. “Almost thought you found someone we could actually be interested in for once.”

“Hold on, my dear Tommy-boy, Uncle Ben’s got you covered. The almost-doctor Shippen has a sister, Margarita ‘Peggy’ Shippen.”

“Lots of people have sisters,” Thomas says dryly.

“Ahh, yes, but do many people have sisters married to the very same Benedict Arnold you so sneakily followed this afternoon?”

Thomas’ eyebrows shoot up, and he looks up at James. James bites his lip, lost in thought.

“So Arnold visited his brother-in-law. So what?” Thomas asks.

“He wasn’t acting like someone who was just visiting his brother-in-law. Who just shouts ‘I know, I’m going, I’m going’ at random cars when you visit extended family?” James asks.

“Maybe when your extended family has ties to rival gangs that just tried to kill you and your boss?” Ben asks. “I mean, Arnold should have been in that church with Washington, no? All of the lieutenants should have been, Hamilton said so. Hey, did we ever find out why they weren’t in church that morning?”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Thomas says, “but back up there. Shippen has ties to the Redcoats?”

“Yeah, I’ve got court testimony he gave at a robbery trial about the medical care he gave to the Redcoat defendant. Also: his roomate is a guy named John Andre, who’s done time for assault and actively identifies as a Redcoat,” Ben says.

“Well that must have put a damper on the wedding ceremony,” Thomas says. Ben laughs, but James is silent, staring at the condo on the map. “James, what are you thinking?” James pauses, his forehead scrunched in the way Thomas knows means he’s thinking, hard.

“I’m thinking the more and more we learn about this Arnold guy, the more I can’t help but think he was the Arnold at Safe Harbors.”

“James, Hamilton said Arnold was loyal.”

“And you trust everything Hamilton says?” James asks. Thomas scoffs.

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you ignoring the obvious connections here?” James whirls on Thomas.

“It doesn’t explain everything.” Thomas shakes his head.

“What doesn’t it explain? If we assume Arnold was convinced to turn Washington in, then we know how the Redcoats knew where and when Washington goes to mass. Monk gave us the name ‘Arnold.’ We assumed it was a first name, but it might not be!’

“Well, why was Arnold acting so skittish? Why yell at random cars?”

“Well the assault failed, didn’t it? And Monk said the ‘James’ character seemed pretty angry about that. I’d be scared if I tried to murder my gang boss but it didn’t work out.” James crosses his arms. Thomas frowns. The more he thinks about it, the more James has a point. But Hamilton had been so convinced. And from what Thomas knew about Washington, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to let possible traitors into his inner circle. But if Washington didn’t know, it was entirely possible Arnold had just slipped through the cracks.

“But if that’s the case, why didn’t Arnold know that Washington wasn’t going to mass that day? Shouldn’t that have been something Arnold would have known, being a lieutenant and all?” Thomas asks. James frowns.

“Luck, I guess.”

“I don’t like answers that include ‘luck.’”

“Half of them do, in our business,” James says.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Thomas grumbles, scooping up his phone and his jacket. “Let’s go talk to Monk. I want to show him Arnold’s picture.”

\------------

Father Monk flips through the book of pictures, scanning the pages carefully. Each of the pictures looked similar to Arnold in some shape or form, but Arnold’s face was buried in the pages too. Monk turns a page and barely glances at this set of photos before pointing at one.

“Him. That’s the one who apologized to me,” Monk says. James takes the book and grabs the photo.

“Are you sure,” James asks, holding the picture out to him. Monk nods, clutching the hospital bed sheets.

“I see his face in nightmares.”

James turns the photo around and hands it to Thomas. It’s Arnold. Thomas sighs.

“Thank you, Father.”

\------------

“Convinced yet?” James asks as they walk through the parking lot. Thomas frowns. There are still loose questions rattling around in his head, and Thomas doesn’t like to end something with loose questions. Why would Arnold give Washington up? Why didn’t he know that Washington wasn’t going to church that morning? Why had Arnold been that afraid of them today on the street? Why had everyone else?

They reach the car, Thomas still lost in thoughts and half-formed theories. He tugs on the passenger door before James unlocks it and he looks down at the handle. The bright red shines against his dark skin. Thomas gasps, and starts laughing as James finally unlocks the car and swings his door open. James looks at him quizzically, and Thomas explains:

“The car is red James.” Thomas motions to the Crown Victoria, still laughing. James nods slowly.

“Yes, Thomas. The car is red.”

“No, no, no-” Thomas shakes his head “--Think about it. Arnold saw a bright red car following him down the street. A _bright red car_ ,” Thomas prompts. James’ eyes go wide in understanding.

“He thought we were Redcoats sent to watch him.”

Thomas nods, still laughing. “‘I know, I’m going?’ He was on his way to a meeting with Redcoats, and there we were, following him.”

James shakes his head and slides into the driver seat. “Does this mean you’re convinced?”

Before Thomas can answer, James’ phone rings. James fishes it out of his back pocket and hands it to Thomas. James turns the car on as Thomas picks up the phone.

“This is Thomas, James is driving.”

“Good to know our law officials practice safe driving techniques,” the French-accented voice of Lafayette says with a chuckle.

“Monsieur Lafayette!” Thomas exclaims, “What can I do for you?” Thomas is hoping for a little of the friendliness he and Lafayette had built that first night, but Lafayette is polite, yet cold in his response.

“Ahh, you see, our friend Alexander seems to have made you a promise without consulting the rest of us.”

“What promise are we talking about?” Thomas asks.

“His deal with you for coke,” Lafayette says, “is too steep for the rest of us.”

“That’s the deal Hamilton and I hashed out, Lafayette.”

“Perhaps, but it is not a deal we all agree to.”

Thomas is tempted to say ‘sucks for you’ and hang up. James must see it on his face, and hs gives Thomas’ free hand a squeeze. Thomas stifles a sigh, the groan dying in his throat.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Thomas asks.

“Renegotiate.” Lafayette must sense Thomas’ hesitation because he continues without pause: “Laurens, Benny A and I will all be there.”

Thomas’ brow furrows. What makes Lafayette think that putting him against four hardened gang members will open Thomas up? Does Lafayette think Thomas will be _more_ relaxed with all of them there? Thomas opens his mouth to shut down the idea, then he remembers that Lafayette had mentioned a ‘Benny.’ _Benny A_. Benedict Arnold.

“Same diner?”

“ _Oui_ , twenty minutes?”

“See you there.”

“Wait-” Thomas says before Lafayette hangs up, “Does Benny know I’m FBI?”

“No, not yet.”

“Good. Don’t tell him, okay?”

“Wh-”

“Thanks, Lafayette. See you soon.” Thomas hangs up with a breath of relief. _This is going to be interesting_.

\---------------

Thomas is carrying his pistol strapped to his side when he walks into the diner. James had argued, told him not to take it, but Thomas--with backup from Steuben--had insisted. Sally wasn't in her usual waitress cover, there was no way to slip her in without the Sons members getting suspicious. He could remember the strength of Lafayette's grip from being slammed into the bar top all too well. He strolls in, the weight of the gun pressing into his side and scanned the diner. Thankfully, Hamilton and his cohorts have chosen the same booth as always.

Hamilton himself is sat next to the window, white shirt contrasting against the red leather seat. He is animatedly talking to Laurens beside him and Lafayette listens from the other side of the table, long arms leaning across the table like thin rails. Arnold is perched on the edge of the booth with Hamilton and Laurens on it, looking decidedly uncomfortable with half of his body hanging out into the open. Just as Thomas wonders if the pudgy man would recognize him, Arnold looks up. His eyes spread wide like saucers, and Thomas figures that Arnold does, indeed, recognize him. Thomas slides into the seat next to Lafayette--Arnold’s shocked gaze following him.

“So, gentlemen, we ready to talk? I’d like to get this over with. I agreed to once-a-day meetings, not _twice_ a day.” Thomas snarks. Hamilton scowls at him.

“I was in the middle of a story,” he says.

“Oh?” Thomas asks, perfectly aware of Arnold’s struggle to maintain a straight face. He really is a bad liar. How he managed to betray Washington and get away with it so far is beyond Thomas.

“Yeah, about how I covered you in sugar this morning.”

Thomas lets out a chuckle, like he hadn't been infuriated by the incident, and adds: “Now all I need is creamer and you've made a full cup of coffee out of me.”

Lafayette laughs as Hamilton glares. Laurens watches, readjusting his ponytail and unintentionally hitting Arnold in the face with his elbow. He apologizes, Arnold mutters something back and glues his eyes to the tabletop.

“Will Clark, by the way. I don't think we've met,” Thomas says, sticking a hand out to Arnold. The man glances up quickly at Thomas, then back down at the table.

“Benedict Arnold,” he mutters, shifting in his seat. Lafayette frowns at him but turns a smile into Thomas.

“But that's a mouthful, no? Call him Benny A.,” Lafayette says. Thomas nods and smiles back.

“How are y’all doing this evening?” Thomas asks. Hamilton glares and Arnold’s response is barely audible, but Laurens and Lafayette are more personable. Laurens asks him about the concussions, but Thomas waves him off. Hamilton is still glowering in the corner, however.

“Well, since Hamilton over there seems particularly upset at being interrupted, and I already know the story, I'll let him finish. I'ma be right back, gents,” Thomas stands and makes his way to the men's bathroom, feeling both Hamilton and Arnold’s gazes follow him.

Inside, Thomas lets out a breath. Arnold’s shifting and jitteriness has left Thomas in a similar bundle of nerves. He considers the situation: Arnold thinks him to be a Redcoat, the other know him to be a cop. Thomas knows about Arnold’s betrayal, but Thomas isn't sure if the others would believe him if he said anything.

Thomas turns on the sink and splashes water on his face. His headache is growing again. He's alone in the diner tonight, James is a dangerous parking lot away, and Sally is hiding in the kitchen. There are no eyes on him directly, Lafayette is blocking the window and Sally is forced to stay down. The weight of the pistol drags on Thomas, the coolness almost like ice through his shirt. He's just about to open his jacket and play with it when the bathroom door swings open.

In an instant, Arnold is on him. Thomas is pushed into the wall next to the sink, the short little man surprisingly strong as he wraps his hand in Thomas’ shirt.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Arnold hisses, his face inches from Thomas. He’s forced to stand on his toes to look Thomas in the eye. This little fact strikes an odd chord in Thomas, and he can't keep the little smile of amusement off his face. “What’s so _damn_ funny?”

“You,” Thomas says, and it isn't a lie. Arnold turns a deep shade of red and slams Thomas into the wall again.

“Are you here to replace me or something? Because I told His Majesty earlier, I’m _trying_.”

“Obviously not hard enough,” Thomas says, more than willing to let Arnold keep talking.

“How was I supposed to know Hamilton convinced Washington to go to a later mass? I was with Reynolds and Seabury when Washington made the decision, King _knows_ that.”

Thomas files the names Reynolds and Seabury away, making a mental note to text Ben. Arnold is still ranting, however.

“I messed up once, okay? But it _wasn’t my fault_. I’ve got new information, a new plan. You people just gotta trust me.”

“Odd request coming from you,” Thomas says. Arnold stumbles over a few incomprehensible syllables then settles for shoving Thomas’ chest back into the wall. It’s fairly weak, Arnold’s nerve disappearing quickly by the second.

“Just get out of here, or I’m marching back down to Reynolds and complaining. I don’t need anyone watching me.” Arnold lets go of Thomas’ shirt and stands back. Thomas feels Arnold glaring at him as Thomas leaves the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him. He looks over to the other Sons lieutenants, hunched over the table in a hushed conversation.

“ _I’m just saying, I think Benny needs to know,_ ” Hamilton says, in whispered french, just loud enough for Thomas to hear.

“ _Thomas must have his reasons for the secrecy_ ,” Lafayette responds.

“ _Ask him what they are, then. I don’t like hiding it from Benny._ ” Hamilton huffs. Thomas sits down, figuring the conversation will die, but Hamilton continues. “ _I don’t trust Jefferson, Laf._ ” Lafayette shoots a warning look at Hamilton. “ _He’s a pig, and the worst man I’ve ever met. He called me a bastard and broke my nose._ ”

“ _You have to admit he’s attractive, though_ ,” Laurens says, a twinkle in his eye. Hamilton huffs.

“ _The Asshole of the Century happens to have pretty eyes, so what?”_ Hamilton rants. Lafayette makes a ‘cut it out’ motion, drawing his hand across his neck but Hamilton keeps going. “ _Fuck him for being handsome. It just makes him worse, he’s abrasive and condescending. He thinks he’s so perfect, riding in here with government backing. He probably wouldn’t be so brave if he didn’t have backup. He deserves every one of his three concussions._ ”

“ _That doesn’t mean we should go behind his back. He specifically requested we don’t tell Benny_. _We should ask him.”_ Lafayette says, pointedly. Thomas sits there, watching the exchange. There’s silent laughter in Laurens’ eyes, but Hamilton looks unperturbed.

“ _Well, screw it. Benny’s our equal and deserves to know. I don’t see the problem in telling him._ ”

“ _If you hold on a moment_ ,” Thomas says, still in French, “ _I might be able to show you why_.” Hamilton starts, staring at him wide-eyed.

“ _You speak French_?!” He exclaims. Laurens breaks out into laughter as Hamilton sputters. “ _You two knew_?” Lafayette nods, unable to keep a smile off his face. “ _Why didn’t you tell me?_ ”

“ _Because The Asshole of the Century didn’t want to tell you,_ ” Thomas comes back.

“ _Slipped my mind_ ,” Laurens says between laughter.

“ _I tried to warn you, my friend. You would not shut up,_ ” Lafayette says, breathless. Hamilton looks mortified.

“ _Your eyes are ugly_ ,” he mutters. Thomas grins as Laurens howls.

“ _But I am handsome_ ,” Thomas teases.

“ _Never._ ” Hamilton glares.

“ _Methinks he doth protest too much, Laf._ ” Thomas laughs and earns a clap on the back from the Frenchman.

“ _Stop saying that!_ ” Hamilton protests. The entire table is laughing at him as he turns a shade of bright red. He turns in his seat and pouts out the window. Thomas hears the bathroom door open and glances back. Arnold is staring at them, watching Laurens and Lafayette laugh and banter in French. Thomas winks at him. Arnold’s look darkens, and he stomps over.

“ _Stop pouting, my friend_ ,” Lafayette is saying as Arnold arrives.

“I have to go,” Arnold mutters, glaring at Thomas, and stomps out of the diner.

“What’s his problem?” Laurens asks. Thomas smirks and whips out his phone. He sents a quick text to James-- _someone follow him_ \--and pockets the phone. Arnold stalks away, crossing the window and disappearing from sight. Louis and Martha slip out of the Crown Victoria and take off after him.

“What’s happening?” Hamilton asks, watching the two agents disappear. He looks at Thomas, suspicion in his eyes.

“Would you like to see?” Thomas asks. He’s counting on Arnold holding true to his threat, to go see Edward Shippen or another Redcoat to complain. Hamilton’s eyes narrow.

“See what?”

“Something to prove to you that you can trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Benedict Arnold was the American general that betrayed the colonists to the British. He was caught before he could do major damage but escaped to England before he could face punishment.
> 
> Margarita 'Peggy' Shippen (who is not Peggy Schuyler) was Arnold's wife and the woman who convinced him to turn sides.
> 
> John Andre was Benedict's contact in the British Army. They met because Andre had been courting Margarita before Arnold met her. It was only when Andre was caught running messages that Arnold's plot was discovered, and Andre was hung by the Continental Army. Also, he was very pretty and deserved better. LoveJohnAndre2k16
> 
> Edward Shippen was Margarita's brother and had nothing to do with anything I just found his name and liked the idea of including him. He was a doctor, though, and lived in England.
> 
> See you Saturday


	11. James Is Just Sitting In The Car Cursing To Himself And Wondering Why He Signed Up For This Job Or Why He Chooses To Associate Himself With Thomas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are talking about Thomas "I Can Work With Three Concussions" Jefferson.

Thomas, Hamilton, Laurens and Lafayette catch up to Louis and Martha, having traveled deep into Redcoat territory. The trip had been silent, but Hamilton had thrown a fit when Thomas tried to lead them across turf lines.

“You’re trying to get us _killed_ ,’ Hamilton had screeched. “We cross this street, we are dead men.”

“Hamilton.”

“No, I _refuse_.” Hamilton had crossed his arms and planted himself on the sidewalk like a petulant child. Lafayette and Laurens had looked similarly hesitant to leave Sons territory, though Laurens had offered to beat up any Redcoats they ran across. Thomas and Hamilton had bickered, Thomas _insisting_ they go and Hamilton _insisting_ they stay.

The argument had ended when Thomas called James and offered to hide the men in the car. So all four of them had piled into the Crown Victoria, Hamilton squashed in the middle seat between Laurens and Lafayette. This time, as James drove through Redcoat-controlled streets people shied away from their car, but Thomas was expecting it now. He chuckled as a young woman averted her eyes and picked up her pace, trying to destroy the bundle of nerves the situation made him feel. Hamilton scowled at him, but Thomas paid him no mind.

James pulled up to the curbside where Louis and Martha were waiting. Thomas rolls down his window and Louis strolls up.

“How are we, gentlemen?” Louis asks, peering into the backseat. “How’s the broken nose Alexander?”

“Still broken,” Hamilton grumbles, shoulders crunched between his larger friends. Louis laughs gently, as if they were discussing the weather or a local sports game.

“Where’s Arnold?” James asks. Louis points down the street, at an alleyway a few buildings down.

“He followed a couple of boys in bright red jackets down there.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says, and opens his door. Louis stands back as Thomas climbs out of the car. The Sons boys are not far behind, Laurens almost falling over himself as he extracts himself from the backseat. “Let’s go,” Thomas says, starting off towards the alley.

“Woah, where are we going?” Hamilton asks, jogging a little to catch up to Thomas.

“To go see Benny and a few of his friends. I think one of them is named Reynolds?” Thomas offers. Hamilton pales.

“Reynolds?” Lafayette says, incredulously. “Not possible.” Thomas shrugs.

“That’s what who he told me he was going to see.” Thomas keeps walking, acting as casual as possible while walking towards a dark alley that held dangerous criminals, with dangerous criminals as his first line of backup. He was carrying a concealed weapon, having just come from a drug deal, to eavesdrop on possible mass murders.

Oh, if his momma could see him now.

Hamilton keeps shooting furtive glances around him, and glaring suspiciously at anyone that looked younger than thirty or so. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“If you're trying to be inconspicuous, you're failing,” Thomas says. “Stay relaxed. Stop looking around.” Hamilton huffs, but stills. His hand taps against his leg, but Thomas lets it go. At least he isn’t snapping his head around like a damn bird anymore. Laurens and Lafayette are talking in hushed tones, walking close behind. Laurens walks like he is ready to jump out of his skin, and Lafayette keeps working his jaw like he is trying to smooth his teeth by rubbing them against each other.

These are not the men Thomas should have picked for a stealth mission.

A few feet away from the alley, Thomas holds out a hand. Hamilton skids to a stop, his chest pushing into Thomas’ palm. In the second before Thomas snatched it away, he can feel Hamilton’s heart pounding like a jackhammer. “Don’t follow, but get close enough you can hear without being seen. Stay quiet, don’t draw attention,” Thomas instructs. He faintly hears Martha say something about an open window in a ice cream shop, but he doesn’t wait to see what she means.

He reaches the alley and peers around the corner. From halfway down the alley, up against the wall, there are voices, rough and angry. Arnold is arguing loudly with a man much taller than him, who has two or three men backing him up. Arnold is red in the face and visibly shaking, though from fear or anger Thomas cannot tell. The other man is calm, hands stuck in his pockets casually. Thomas can see the butt of a pistol sticking out from underneath the red jacket.

“I am _sick_ and _tired_ of telling you people _I am on your side_!” Arnold yells. “You refuse to _believe_ me. If you don’t wise up and trust me, I _will_ tell Washington _exactly_ who shot up--”

Arnold lets out a little _‘eep’_ as the other man suddenly rushes forward and throws Arnold against the brick wall. There’s a crunch, and Arnold cries out, clutching his side. As the other Redcoats cheer, the tall Recoat grabs Arnold by the throat, lifts him up into the air and slams Arnold into the wall. The Redcoat needs only one hand to wrap around Arnold’s neck, and Arnold's hands scrabble against his opponent's wrist weakly. His feet kick out, but any hit they land the Redcoat takes without flinching.

“Re-” Arnold chokes out before the Redcoat cuts off his air.

“Listen here, you little bitch,” the Redcoat snarls, “did you forget who I am? What makes you think you can step to _me_ and deliver empty threats?”

“ _Air_ -” Arnold gasps, and the Redcoat punches him in the stomach.

“I said _listen_!” The Redcoat shakes Arnold. “You’re just a little cunt who thinks he’s so much better by turning against his hood. You little fucking coward, don’t you _dare_ try and threaten _me_. I can _break_ you. You or that little bitch of a wife you’ve got. I don’t trust you because you’re a little traitor who failed me.”

Arnold’s eyes are bugging, his tugging at the hand pinning him to the wall is growing weaker. Arnold tries to speak, his mouth moving in silent pleas.

“ _Speak up_ , you little shit. Can’t _hear_ you!” The Redcoat taunts, but lessens the pressure slightly. Arnold gulps a mouthful of air.

“ _Please_ -” Arnold pleads, eyes watering. “Reynolds, please!”

Reynolds laughs, and returns the pressure. Arnold gapes, struggling for breath. His lips are turning blue when Thomas realizes that Reynolds is really going to kill him. Thomas jumps out into the alley opening and starts to make his way down to the wall. Despite the urging in his body to draw his gun and rescue Arnold, Thomas forces his body to relax, to saunter down the alley like he was taking a Sunday stroll.

“Let him go, Reynolds,” Thomas says, voice far more confident than he feels. Reynolds looks over his shoulder and makes eye-contact with Thomas. There’s confusion in his eyes that quickly melts to anger.

“And who are _you_?” Reynolds spits. The other Redcoats glare at Thomas, one takes a threatening step forward. The three others are smaller than Reynolds, but larger than Laurens. One has a tattoo just below his eye, three dots on his left cheek. Another has the letters A.C.A.B. poking out of the top of his shirt. Three Dots takes a threatening step towards Thomas.

“Clark,” Thomas says, like it is supposed to mean something. “I said drop him.”

“Oh yeah? And why should I?” Reynolds turns, still keeping Arnold pinned to the wall. His face is surprisingly calm as Arnold’s kicks slow to a stop.

“Because I said so,” Thomas challenges. Reynolds sneers.

“Apparently, you weren’t listening to what I was telling Benny here. You do _not_ threaten me.” Reynolds’ friends step closer to Thomas, but Thomas holds his ground. He looks at the three men approaching him with something akin to boredom on his face.

“So which one of you want to tell Seabury why I was forced to kick your asses?” Thomas asks, hoping for the best. The men stop, hesitating. Three Dots looks back at Reynolds, whose eyes are flashing dangerously.

“What do you mean?” Reynolds asks, leaning away from Arnold. Thomas shrugs.

“Seabury strikes me as the type to ask about any beatings I might receive...or dole out,” Thomas adds, almost as an afterthought. “Especially when he finds out you know who I am.”

“Remind me,” Reynolds growls.

“Will Clark?” Thomas asks. “The man Seabury sent to watch _him_.” Thomas nods in Arnold’s direction. “He should have told you…” Thomas trails. Reynolds glances between Thomas and his own men, and comes to a decision.

“Ah, I remember now,” Reynolds says, a fake look of realization on his face. “Yeah, Clark. Sam mentioned you once.”

“Good, good.” Thomas smiles. “So, drop our friend before he dies, yeah?”

Reynolds looks at Arnold, whose throat is working to take in air, eyes drooping. Reynolds gets go of his neck and Arnold drops to the ground. He gasps and sputters, gulping lungfuls of air. Arnold curls up and leans against the wall, coughing. Reynolds sneers at him, before turning back to Thomas.

“So you’re the little bitch stuck on babysitting duty?” Reynolds asks. It’s an attempt to establish dominance, Thomas knows, but he still feels slightly offended. William Clark is a powerful drug lord, _damn it_ , not somebody’s little errand boy.

“No, that’s Lewis,” Thomas says, inventing ‘Lewis’ out of thin air. “ _I’m_ supposed to eventually replace Benny here.” Thomas nods at the man, who is starting to recover. Arnold looks up at him, the near-death experience having struck fear into his face.

“Oh, so we are getting rid of the little snot,” Reynolds says, eyeing the cowering man. Thomas frowns.

“No, I am.” Thomas crosses the remaining distance between him and Reynolds, but is blocked by the hulking Redcoat.

“Whadda mean, ‘I am?’ And who is Lewis?” Reynolds asks.

“ _Lewis_ is the man that’s been trailing Benny since Safe Harbors. And _I_ -” Thomas jerks a thumb at his chest, “-am going to be getting rid of the little snot. Not _you_ -” Thomas jabs Reynolds in the chest with a finger, “-not _we_ -” Thomas motions at the other Redcoats, “ _Me._ It’s my job.”

Reynolds’ face contorts with anger, a snarl creeping across his face. Thomas’ eye flit down to the pistol sticking out of Reynold’s pants, but he tears his gaze away. He takes a risk--well, another one, thinking on it--and shifts so Reynolds can see that he’s armed too.

“What are you going to do?” Reynolds asks. Thomas tuts, sliding around Reynolds and walking up to Arnold. The man on the ground looks up at him in fear, a begging for mercy plastered across his face.

“Don’t you know how to properly dispose of someone? Never tell how you did it.” Thomas pulls Arnold up to a stand, grip tight around his arm like a vice. “But--hypothetically--I’d march this little man down to Washington, tell him what I, quote-unquote “overheard,” and this little shit would confess, because he knows what will happen if he _doesn’t_. Don’t you, Arnold?” Thomas sneers, leaning uncomfortably close to Arnold’s face. Arnold nods, his face gone pale. “Good, good. Now, that’s just a hypothetical, of course.”

“...so what are you going to do?” Reynolds asks, confusion plastered across his face. Thomas sighs.

“Don’t worry about it big guy,” Thomas rolls his eyes and leads Arnold down the alley back to where the Sons lieutenants are waiting, hopefully having heard and now _exceedingly_ pissed.

“Hey, hey! You didn’t answer my question!” Reynolds calls. Thomas does not turn around, but simply waves.

“See you around, Reynolds,” Thomas says, pulling Arnold by one arm. Arnold stumbles along beside him, trembling slightly. Thomas does not know if it’s from fear or possible damage from oxygen deprivation. “Why did you decide to work with such an _idiot_?” Thomas asks him, his voice low so Reynolds does not hear.

“Why did you decide to work with King’s little whore?” Arnold shoots back, voice shaking despite his argumentative words. Thomas shrugs.

“I suppose you’ve got me there.” Thomas is continually amazed at what people will tell you if they think you already know. He assumes Arnold is talking about Seabury, whose first name is possibly Sam. Arnold is muttering, something about stupid southern Redcoats. He suppresses a giggle. Arnold is about to see just how wrong he is. He glances back, only to make eye contact with Reynolds, who is walking down the alley away from Thomas. Reynolds makes a little hand sign and turns around. Thomas smiles and turns away from the retreating Redcoats.

Thomas leads Arnold out of the alley and makes a left-hand turn towards where the Sons and his team should be waiting. For a moment, Thomas is confused. No one’s in sight. Then Hamilton comes barreling out of the ice cream shop to Thomas’ left, eyes blazing, followed close behind Laurens and Lafayette. Arnold’s eyes go wide, and he tugs on Thomas’ arm--pulling him along or just trying to get away, Thomas doesn’t know.

Hamilton grabs Arnold and rips him out of Thomas’ grasp. He pulls the traitor off balance, then winds up and lands a punch squarely on Arnold’ jaw. Arnold's head snaps to the right, and Hamilton knees him in the stomach.

“Hey!” Thomas calls, but is ignored as Hamilton starts yelling in Arnold’s ear.

“You _fuck_! You tried to fucking _kill_ us? What happened, get too scared? Went crawling back to the Redcoats the first time they threatened us? Huh? Was it that wife of yours? Answer me you _shit_!” Hamilton is screaming, shaking Arnold, drawing the attention of passers-by. Thomas glances back at the alley, but none of the Redcoats have come running out onto the street yet.

“Hamilton, not _here_ ,” Thomas says, putting a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. But Laurens is at Hamilton’s side.

“Lemme at him, Alex,” Laurens says ,”Me ‘n Laf will take care of this.”

“No you won’t,” Thomas protests, but he is ignored. Hamilton throws Arnold at Laurens, who immediately starts wailing on him. Lafayette comes around the other side, effectively blocking Thomas from any attempt to rescue Arnold. He glances around and sees Louis and Martha still standing in the doorway of the shop. “Don’t just _stand_ there!” Thomas shouts, and Martha jerks into action. She comes down the steps and tries to get between Laurens and his helpless victim. Louis follows with a little ‘huff.’

Hamilton wheels on Thomas, glaring up at him. “ _You_ ,” he spits, “what were you talking about? Working for _Seabury_? Are you trying to play us?”

“Calm down, Hamilton,” Thomas says, trying to see what’s going on with Laurens, Lafayette, and Arnold. “I don’t even know who Seabury _is_. I just heard the name, pulled it out and hoped for the best.” Thomas cranes his neck to find Arnold, who is buried beneath the shouting match breaking out between Laurens and Martha. They were practically nose-to-nose, and Lafayette is trying to pull them apart. Thomas loses sight of Louis for a moment, but he reappears, dragging Arnold from the fray by his shoulders.

“Got him,” Louis says, pulling Arnold to stand by Thomas. The traitor is now sporting a busted lip, his left eye swelling very quickly. Hamilton looks as if he’s ready to jump on Arnold again, but Thomas puts himself between the two of them.

“Thanks, Louis. Cuff him and stick him in the car,” Thomas says. Arnold’s eyes widen.

“Cuffs?” He asks, little flecks of blood flying from his lips. Louis pulls a pair of handcuffs and sets about securing Arnold’s wrists together. Arnold tries to pull away, but he’s trapped between Louis and Thomas.

“Hey, he’s _ours_ ,” Hamilton protests, trying to push past Thomas.

“No, he’s ours,” Thomas retorts. Arnold looks between the two of them, confusion evident on his face.

“Get _off_ Laf,” Laurens yells from somewhere behind Thomas. He turns to find Lafayette holding Laurens back from Martha, who has jumped back from the freckled man and thrown her arms up defensively.

“Laurens, _mon ami_ , you cannot hit a federal agent,” Lafayette says, holding Laurens tight to his chest despite his friend’s struggles.

“Federal agent…?” Arnold mutters. He looks up a Thomas. “You’re not a Redcoat. You’re a cop,” he whispers, eyes the size of planets. Thomas grimaces. He had wanted to get Arnold down to the precinct before he figured that out. “You’re working with _cops_?” Arnold asks Hamilton. Hamilton frowns and looks down at the sidewalk.

“Boss’ orders,” he says. Arnold stills, the shock rendering him paralyzed.

“Come on, then. In the car,” Louis says, pushing Arnold toward the waiting Crown Victoria. The movement jolts Arnold out of his surprise, and he renews his efforts to twist away from Louis. Louis is unfazed, keeping a tight grip on the struggling gangster.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Lafayette cries in French. He staggers back, Laurens surging out of his weakened grip and lunging for Martha. Thomas spins and jumps for Laurens, slamming into him sideways, pushing him to the ground and pinning his arms to his sides. Laurens wriggles under Thomas’ weight so that they’re chest-to-chest and snaps his head up. Thomas jerks back just in time to avoid the headbutt and Laurens growls at him. There’s unbridled anger in his eyes, the kind that drives men to stupid decisions and a chill runs down Thomas’ spine.

Lafayette, meanwhile, is doubled over at the waist, holding his stomach with both arms. In a flash, Arnold jerks away from Louis so their arms are straight out and he uses the space to move so Lafayette is hunched over between them. With Louis’ hands still gripping his wrists, Arnold brings his arms up and then pulls them down sharply over Lafayette’s back. He keeps pulling his arms down until Louis’ arms are bending backwards and he lets go. Arnold, now freed, pulls his arms into his chest and runs, booking it across the busy New York street. Cars honk angrily as Arnold dodges between them. Louis, cursing, tries to follow, but Lafayette falls to his knees and just manages to trip the blonde agent and send him sprawling to the ground.

Thomas, pushing himself up, catches a glimpse of Arnold halfway across the street. He dances out of the way of a taxi, mouthing an apology and glancing quickly about him. Thomas sees a white blur--Hamilton taking off after Arnold--before Laurens surges up beneath him and flips their positions so Thomas is staring up at the murder in Laurens’ eyes. Laurens raises a fist and Thomas shuts his eyes, says goodbye to his pretty face, and braces himself for the blow.

It never comes. Instead, Laurens twists above him, cursing. Thomas opens his eyes to watch James shove Laurens to the ground, hands cuffed behind his back. Laurens squirms and struggles until Lafayette appears and sits on his back. Pinned, Laurens looks up at his friend and tries to spit at him. Lafayette swats Laurens on the back of the head and starts to scold him in French. Thomas lets out a sigh of relief and takes the hand James offers.

“Thanks,” he says, as he’s helped to his feet. James gives him a withering glare, and Thomas shrinks beneath it.

“Don’t thank me yet,” James says, cold and unforgiving. Thomas swallows and looks around. Louis is sitting on the ground, examining his elbows, Lafayette and Laurens are still in their positions, Martha is trying to disperse the crowd that has formed and neither Hamilton or Arnold are in sight. Thomas’ neck twinges as his head swivels, and he winces and rubs at the sore spot. That’s when he notices the cameras--bystanders that have whipped out their phones and been filming for who knows how long. Thomas breathes a curse and tries not to look directly at any of them, but finds it near impossible due to the sheer number of them. James frowns and shoves the keys to the car in his hands.

“Go sit in the car and wait,” James hisses. He turns on one heel and starts to break up the crowd with Martha.

“‘Scuse me, excuse me,” someone says from the crowd behind Thomas. “ _Excuse me you fucks I’m trying to get through_ ,” Hamilton screeches, drawing a groan from Thomas. He turns, hoping to see Hamilton coming through the ring of witnesses, dragging Arnold behind him. Instead, it is just Hamilton struggling and pushing his way past innocent civilians, cursing at them all the way. He limps out, shoulders drawn tight and scowling.

“Fucker got away,” he snarls. He’s struggling to walk, heavily favoring his right leg over his left.

“Obviously,” Thomas drawls, knowing he’s taking his frustration and embarrassment out on Hamilton. Hamilton glares at him and shoots him the bird. He limps to the Victoria, yanks the door open, and throws himself into the passenger seat. Thomas is just about to stomp over and drag Hamilton out of _his_ seat when Thomas’ phone vibrates in his pocket. He fishes it out, wincing as he sees it’s Ben. He picks up the call and puts it to his ear.

“Hello?” Thomas asks, hoping.

“Tommy boy. Would you care to explain why a video of you almost getting your ass beat by John Laurens just popped up on my twitter feed?”

“...how is it online that quickly?” Thomas asks, awestruck. He glances around the crowd, trying to see if he can find the person responsible. “And I wouldn’t call it an ass beating.”

“Well, that’s what it looks like to me, from the multiple angles I’m finding. Because there are multiple videos Thomas, _multiple videos from multiple people_.”

“How did you even find it?”

“I’m tracking certain Sons-related hashtags and users. Which, by the way, someone just started a new hashtag for this. Would you like to know what it is?”

“Not pa-”

“ _The sons are fighting again darling._ ”

“Ben-”

“Thomas, I’d suggest getting your ass back to the hotel before this ends up on the news and the director himself calls me, because I’m going to forward him to you directly and I don’t think you’re going to want to get chewed out in _public_.”

Ben hangs up. Thomas grips his phone and thinks about smashing it against the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slow claps all around*
> 
> Thanks for 200 Kudos!
> 
> See You Saturday


	12. Listen To Your Best Friend Thomas, James Knows What He's Talking About.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Arnold's getaway, James takes a stand.

“This is your last chance, Jefferson,” the director, Charles Farnese, warns.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Thomas says through clenched teeth. He holds his head in his hand, squeezing his temples to try and alleviate the migraine coming on. It’s the next morning and Thomas only managed to get a few hours of sleep. “Goodbye,” he says, and lowers his phone from his ear. He lets out a sigh. James looks up from where he’s watching the news on Ben’s hotel room tv.

“How bad?” James asks.

“He yelled for a little bit, then got really calm when he told me he that he would have to disavow us if someone finds out we’re FBI.” Thomas throws himself on the bed beside James. The sudden shift in position is accompanied by a slight dizzy spell, but Thomas has gotten quite used to those recently. “Then he told me that I’m a disgrace to the agency and if I fuck up this bad again I’m fired.”

James pats Thomas on the knee. “Farnese would never _fire_ you,” he says. Thomas picks his head up and gives James a withering look. “He’d make you resign.”

Thomas flops his head back down on the bed. “He just hates me because of what happened to Lincoln. He’s been looking for a reason to get rid of me ever since.”

“There’s no way-”

“He blames me for letting Booth in the theatre that night, James.”

James is quiet for a moment. “It was kind of your fault.”

“How was _I_ supposed to know he was _armed_?” Thomas yells at the ceiling. “It’s not like he walked in waving a gun around.”

“You were supposed to protect Lincoln, Thomas. You were standing right there,” James reminds him. Thomas huffs, and rolls on his side away from James. From this angle, he can see the tv better. The news anchor is going through the video of Thomas and everyone else’s fight slowly, breaking down each event and drawing little diagrams.

“And here, this guy looks up to find Arnold and Laurens takes his opportunity--”

“Turn that off, will you?” Thomas asks.

“I want to know what she has to say about Hamilton,” Friedrich says. Thomas frowns and tries to pry the remote from him, but the large man dances away with surprising grace. Friedrich laughs as Thomas flips onto his stomach, grumbling about wanting a new team.

“Hey, Tommy,” Ben calls from the desk, “I got something that might cheer you up.”

“Tell me you found Arnold,” Thomas says, peeling himself from the bed and walking over, pointedly ignoring the tv as Friedrich turns up the volume.

“Even better,” Ben says, laughter in his voice. “Look at this.” Ben leans back from his laptop and Thomas looks down. His eyes narrow, reading the text and scanning the image in front of him. He pauses, unsure, then--

“You’re a meme, Thomas!” Ben practically _squeals_. “You’re an actual _meme_!”

“What?” Thomas asks. The picture on Ben’s screen is a still from one of the videos Thomas has already seen. Lafayette is sitting on Lauren’s back, mid-swat to the head, and Thomas, still on the ground, is looking at them with what looks like concern, confusion and a bit of disgust. Someone's captioned it “ _‘Join the Sons,’ they said. ‘We’re manly,’ they said. ‘We’re a serious gang’ they said_.”

Ben scrolls down, the same image comes up with a different caption: “ _Alright, I’m kinkshaming_.” Then another-- “ _Alternate me sure is into some weird stuff_ ”--and another-- “ _*record scratch, freeze frame* yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got in this situation._ ”

“Oh my god,” Thomas breathes. Ben laughs.

“You haven’t even seen the gifs yet.” Ben pulls up another tab and Thomas is treated to a looping shot of him tackling Laurens to the ground, except someone’s photoshopped a Batman mask onto his face and Joker makeup onto Laurens. Thomas hangs his head, not even looking up as Ben scrolls past more and more, guffawing. “Oh my god, you have to see this one!”

Thomas reluctantly picks up his head. This one is a sideways shot of Hamilton running across the street after Arnold. The words “My dreams” are across Arnold’s chest, and Hamilton is similarly labeled “Me.” Thomas is slightly confused until the car--labeled “Life” in the same text--comes screaming into frame and running directly into Hamilton. Hamilton goes flying to the right, Arnold runs out of frame and the gif starts over. Against his will, Thomas smirks a little. Hamilton is physically okay, he knows, but watching him disappear in a split second is satisfying and more than a little funny.

“I knew you’d like that one,” Ben says. Thomas pats him on the shoulder.

“Send that to me. I want Hamilton to see it,” Thomas says. Ben laughs and nods.

“Speaking of Hamilton,” James says, lowering his phone. “Revere says he’s down in the precinct looking for you.” Thomas lets out a dramatic groan and drops to the ground in a heap. “Thomas,” James says.

“Tell him I tripped down the elevator shaft and died,” Thomas says, screwing his eyes shut. He hears heavy footsteps and then suddenly large hands are on his shoulders.

“Your boyfriend is waiting for you, princess,” Friedrich says, scooping his arms under Thomas and lifting him up before Thomas has a chance to fight him. He throws Thomas over his shoulder, easily holding him with one arm. Head spinning, Thomas pounds his fists on Friedrich’s back, cursing and demanding to be put down. Friedrich ignores his threats, winking at James and carrying Thomas to the elevator.

\-------------

Hamilton is sitting on the conference table in Thomas’ make-shift office, staring at the map on the wall. He kicks his legs, humming to himself as Thomas enters. Thomas steels himself, and walks in the door.

“Hamilton,” Thomas says, strolling into the room. His head is pounding behind his eyes and he _knows_ there’s Tylenol somewhere in here underneath all the papers and files.

“This map is really cool,” Hamilton says, not even looking at Thomas. “Tell whoever made it that I like it.” Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“Why, thank you Hamilton. I appreciate the compliment,” Thomas says, simply. Hamilton snaps his head around and frowns, nose scrunched up.

“Then I take it back. It’s horrible.”

Thomas rolls his eyes and pulls out a chair. Hamilton swings around so he’s sitting cross-legged on the table, and Thomas sees him wince as he pulls his right leg up stiffly.

“How’s the leg?” Thomas asks. Hamilton blinks, and glances down at his leg.

“Just fine. Why do you care?” Hamilton asks, eyes narrowing.

“You were hit by a car.” Thomas crosses his arms, almost surprised he has to defend himself. Then again, Hamilton seems to take everything as a challenge.

“It wasn’t going that fast.”

“You flew at least five feet.”

“That doesn’t mean it injured me.”

“You’re limping, Hamilton!”

“So it’s bruised, whatever.”

“Did you even get it medically looked at?”

“I had John check it out.”

“Because John Laurens is a doctor, yes.”

“He’s studying to be a nurse, excuse you.”

Thomas, slightly surprised, blinks. “Well, he’s not a nurse yet, is he?”

“If John says it’s fine, I trust him.” Hamilton hits the table with the palm of his hand. The stubborn look in his eyes tells Thomas it is useless to argue with him.

“What are you here for, anyway?” Thomas asks. Hamilton frowns.

“If you don’t want me here--”

“I don’t,” Thomas interrupts. “The diner is supposed to be our meeting place. People seeing you coming in and out of a police station might raise some questions.”

Hamilton opens his mouth, stops, closes it, and then opens it again. “Well, I couldn’t figure out a way to contact you.”

“Washington knows how,” Thomas points out. Hamilton grinds his jaw.

“Well, The General isn’t in the best of moods right now,” Hamilton says. Thomas raises an eyebrow. If Washington isn’t happy about what happened, he’s not surprised Washington’s first action wasn’t calling James.

“That’s what happens when you find out a friend tried to kill you,” Thomas says and Hamilton scowls. So he’s right, Washington isn’t just angry about Arnold.

“Have you found him yet?” Hamilton asks, the topic change almost too obvious for Thomas to pass up.

“Do you think I’d be sitting here talking to you if we had?” Thomas asks. Hamilton’s face turns a shade close to the Prostitution Pink pins on the map behind him.

“I just wanted to know.” Hamilton crosses his arms and looks down and away. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Thomas bites his lip. There’s something about watching Hamilton pout like this that doesn’t sit right with Thomas. “Hey,” he says, voice sincere, “Thanks for running after Arnold.” If there’s a flicker of kindness in Thomas’ words, he’d deny it to the grave. Hamilton must hear it though, if the expression of confusion he looks up with is any indication. He opens his mouth but Thomas runs over his words quickly. “Even if you did let him get away,” he adds, killing any positive inflection he might have had. Hamilton’s face turns to a scowl almost instantly, and the moment is gone.

“I was _hit by a car_!” He shouts. Thomas smirks. This is better.

“You’re the one who claims it didn’t hurt,” he drawls. Hamilton huffs and climbs off the table. “Hold on, hold on!” Thomas digs his phone out of his pocket. “Have you seen-”

“ _Yes I’ve seen the gif!_ ” Hamilton hisses. “John won't let up about it.”

“There's a couple he's in too, if you wanna see?” Thomas offers his phone to Hamilton. Hamilton's eyes light up as he watches Joker-John hit the pavement.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, handing the phone back to him. Thomas takes it, his fingers brushing Hamilton’s hand for a brief moment before Hamilton snatches his hand away and shoves it into his pocket. Thomas is left holding the phone between them awkwardly. Hamilton looks down at the floor as Thomas puts his phone away.

“If you don’t know where Arnold is, there’s no point to me being here anymore,” he says, as if he’s trying to justify leaving. He turns and heads for the door. Thomas furrows his brow.

“Wait, Hamilton,” he says. Hamilton, halfway out the door, stops on a dime. He turns with a questioning look. Thomas hesitates, not quite sure why he stopped Hamilton in the first place, but quickly finds a scrap of paper and a pen. He scribbles his phone number down and holds the slip of paper out for Hamilton to take.

“What’s that?” Hamilton asks.

“My number,” Thomas says, waving the paper a little bit. “So you don’t have to come into the precinct again.”

Hamilton looks at the paper, expression unreadable, before taking it slowly. He folds the paper and sticks it in his pocket. “Don’t expect a call, asshole,” he says. Thomas scowls.

“Get out of my office, Hamilton,” he says, voice harder than he had meant it to be. Hamilton sticks his tongue out at him and leaves, slamming the door behind him. Thomas listens to his footsteps fade into the sounds of the police station. He falls into the chair he pulled out, and sighs.

“Knock knock,” James says, gently knocking on the door. He comes in before Thomas says anything. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” Thomas asks. James pulls a chair out from the table and sits down. James sighs as Thomas rummages through the papers on the desk. He finds the small, white pill bottle and throws a couple Tylenol into his mouth.

“Yes, we do. About _that_ ,” James says, looking at the pill bottle in Thomas’ hands. Thomas swallows. He looks at James curiously, and then holds out the bottle.

“Do you need some?” He asks, but James is already shaking his head.

“Thomas, you should go home.”

“What?”

“It's been three days, and your concussion isn't getting any better.”

“Yes it-”

“You've been irrational, making _stupid_ choices, taking Tylenol like candy, irritable --”

“I'm not irritable!” Thomas protests. James cocks an eyebrow, but continues:

“You’ve been making rash, illogical decisions. You walked right up to James Reynolds and bluffed your way out. You got _so lucky_ , Thomas. You lead three dangerous men to a confrontation with someone you _knew_ they were going to be pissed at. You let them attack him, which inevitably let Arnold get away. I mean, tell me what you were thinking when you pulled that shit today? What was going through your head?”

“I--” Thomas stutters. “I was just trying to…” _what had he been trying to do_? Catch Arnold red-handed? Prove himself to the Sons? To _Hamilton_? “I didn’t think anything would happen.”

“That’s right, Thomas. You didn’t think.” James crosses his arms. “If you had put even _three_ seconds of thought into _anything_ you did today, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Thomas…” James trails with a sigh. “This isn’t like you. I _know_ you. You’re an irresponsible, know-it-all smartass, but you’re not rash. You’re not illogical. Thomas, you take stupid risks, but at least you think about them first. You come up with backup plans, you think things through. But ever since the concussions, you haven’t been _thinking_. You just...do.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? Because the Thomas I know would _never_ have walked down that alley without knowing someone was ready to go in after you. The Thomas I know would _never_ have tried to tackle John Laurens. And he certainly would have found a way to at least be _civil_ with Hamilton by now.” James leans forward, over the table. “I think you need to go home. Rest up, heal. In a couple of weeks, when you feel better, you’ll thank me.”

“I am not going home, James,” Thomas says, “I’m needed here. Who else is going to go meet Hamilton?”

“We can make arrangements-”

“I said no, James. I’m in charge here, and I’m not going home.”

“I just think-”

“My decision is final. I don’t want to hear you talk about it again.” Thomas knows he’s being a little unreasonable, but he locks his jaw and maintains eye-contact until James looks away. Thomas has never given up on an assignment before, and a little concussion is _not_ going to put him out of commission.

“Then...we’re going to start sending someone else in undercover instead of you,” James says. “You’re okay with that, right? You won’t have to deal with Hamilton anymore.”

Thomas start, blinking in surprise. “Is it really smart to risk pissing Washington off now?”

“Maybe not, but Washington will just have to deal with it.” James stands, but Thomas grabs his wrist.

“Who? Who would we send? Sally can’t go, Hamilton would recognize her. Martha’s probably not on Lauren’s ‘favorites’ list, Louis is too busy running PR and media interference, Steuben can’t, and neither can Ben.”

“That leaves me, doesn’t it?” James asks, eyebrow cocked. Thomas stares, realizing that James is dead serious, and breaks out into laughter.

“ _You?_ ” Thomas asks, watching James’ expression collapse to dangerously neutral. “Don’t you remember the last time you tried to go undercover?”

“Yes, I remember,” James says through gritted teeth.

“It took you not ten minutes to get caught. Then you ended up in the hospital with a bullet in your-”

“That was two years ago.”

“And you haven’t gotten any better at lying since.”

James grinds his teeth. “Well you can’t go back in. Not with the way you’re acting.”

“I’m _not_ acting any different than normal, James! Everything’s fine.” Thomas holds his ground. He can almost see the gears turning in James’ head.

“...at least take me with you. You can’t be on your own anymore.”

“James-”

“I am not bending on this. This is the compromise. I come with you...or I call Farnese and tell him about the concussions.”

This time, when Thomas tries to stare James into submission, he gets nothing but steel in return. He sighs, shoulders dropping.

“We’re going to work through your story first. And you're going to let _me_ do most of the talking. You'll still be with me-” Thomas says to James’ oncoming protest- “but I'm leading things.”

“Fine,” James agreed. Thomas eyed him for a moment, and then settled back into a slouch. He kicked one foot up on the table and did his best “tough-man-fight-me-gangster” impression.

“And who are you?” He asked, gruff and unyielding.

“Lewis,” James says, with no hesitation. Thomas cocks and eyebrow and flicks his gaze up and down.

“You got a full name, Lewis?”

“Uh,” James stumbles over his words. Thomas stifles a sigh. If James can't even get through his name, he's going to have a bad time trying to get through a made-up history. “Ma-Meriwether Lewis.”

Thomas freezes. James is looking at him with barely concealed embarrassment and guilt, like he knows how horrible that answer is.

“Meriwether Lewis?” Thomas asks, disbelief in his voice. “ _Meriwether Lewis?_ ”

“I only thought up the Lewis part! I panicked.”

“ _Meriwether_? What about ‘Mathew’ or ‘Mike?’ Meriwether sounds like you time-traveled from the 1800’s.”

“I think Meriwether Lewis sounds just fine.”

“Yeah, well. You're Matt Lewis now.” Thomas says. “Okay, where are you from?”

“Charlotte, like you. Matt used to be-”

“No, _you_ used to be. Matt is you, _you_ are _Matt_.”

“Fine.” James let out a breath and kneaded his hands into the table. “I used to be your right-hand-man, worked distribution. Followed you when you left.”

“Why?”

“I thought that was good story-”

“No, why did you leave Charlotte with me?” Thomas asks. James’ eyes light up in understanding.

“Because you’re my boss.”

Thomas shook his head. “Not good enough. What made you leave everyone and everything you knew behind for a slim chance in New York?”

James sits in silence, thinking. Thomas waits, knowing this question will make or break James in the eyes of Sons that don't know his true identity.

“I owe you for saving my life the night of the Massacre,” James says. Thomas nods.

“Good. What else?”

“I have no family or friends left in Charlotte.”

“And?”

“I need a way to feed myself.”

“ _And?”_

_“_ Jesus Christ, how many reasons do I need?”

“You need enough reasons no one will doubt your loyalty to me, and by extension, The Sons Of Liberty.”

James looks down at the table, the same thoughtful expression Thomas has seen on his face a million times. He waits patiently until James glances up, sighs and says:

“I'm in love with you.”

Thomas’ eyebrows shoot up and for a second, he's transported back in time to a day when _he_ said those words to James. College, sophomore year. Except they weren't developing a character, Thomas had been telling the truth. James must see the memory on his face, or be thinking of it himself because he opens his mouth presumably to apologize or retract. Before James can speak, Thomas says:

“Well, I was thinking ‘Best Friends Since Childhood,’ but ‘Unrequited Love’ works too. Do you think you could pull it off?”

There is a moment of silence between the two of them, each gauging the other’s faces in the way only best friends can. James opens his mouth to answer, but Thomas’ phone chimes in his pocket. It's a message from a number he doesn’t recognize.

**From: UNKNOWN NUMBER**

**Boss is holding a meeting. Wants you there. Fighting Frenchman, one hour. -A.HAM**

“Guess we’re going to find out,” Thomas says, holding his phone out for James to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peers in Alex's direction and hums thoughtfully.*
> 
> In other news I have a crystal-clear image of that 'Hamilton gets hit by a car' gif in my head, grainy camera phone quality and all. It makes me laugh whenever I think about it. I think it's possibly the best thing I've ever thought up.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> Meriwether Lewis was the other half of the 'Lewis and Clark' duo, but 'Meriwether' is a fucking ridiculous name for a modern story so now it's Matt Lewis. Also, do not tell me that L&C were not gay for each other they totally were _let me have my gay historical figures, please. ___
> 
> __See you Saturday_ _


	13. Lieutenant Battle #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In one corner: Thomas Jefferson, fighting under the alias William Clark.
> 
> In the other corner: Alexander Hamilton.
> 
> Featuring a surprise appearance by a fighter who's been away for a year.
> 
> Who will win the first Lieutenant Battle?

The _Frenchman_ is dark, none of the neon lights shine in the mid-afternoon. Thomas has to heave the door open against a strong wind that's kicked up. James ducks inside and Thomas follows, letting the heavy door slam behind him. Now that the club’s lights are off and the smoke machines are down, Thomas can see around the near-empty floor. The dance floor is much smaller than he would have guessed, and there are more booths that ring the floor. The blue pleather on the seats is glaringly cheap under bright light. It really was a different place under fluorescent lighting and free of smoke.

In the center of the dance floor, there’s a ring of eighteen chairs, all but four filled by young men. They all turn their heads and look at Thomas and James as they enter, each expression carefully guarded and suspicious. Washington sits up at the DJ booth, and Adams is sat beside him. Washington looks down at Thomas, eyes flicking to James in confusion. Laurens and Lafayette are both in the circle, and Lafayette grins and waves. Thomas smiles back widely and struts around James to the circle.

“Well, good afternoon gentlemen,” he says, laying on his accent thick. He picks the open seat next to Lauren's and sits. Everyone’s gazes are on him and he has to work to stay relaxed, crossing his legs and leaning his head back. James comes up and stands behind him, hands curling around the top of the chair. Thomas looks around the circle, trying to quickly commit faces to memory.

“Boys, this is William Clark,” Washington says. “I believe I've mentioned him to most everyone here.” There are nods from everyone, and Washington continues. “He’ll be joining us in all meetings from now on, but we’ll discuss that more once everyone is here.”

Thomas looks at Washington, eyebrows shot up in surprise. Washington nods, almost imperceptibly, and Thomas relaxes further into the folding chair.

“And who’s that?” The man to Lafayette’s right asks, nodding his head at James.

“Matt Lewis,” Thomas says. “My second-in-command. My Vice-dealer, if you will.” He chuckles to himself, but no one else does. James’ grip tightens on the chair.

“Good for him. He can wait outside,” the same man says. Thomas’ smile falters.

“He stays.”

“He really should go, Mr. Clark,” Washington says, pointedly. Thomas shakes his head.

“You want me, you get him too.” Thomas doesn't break eye-contact until Washington gets the message, then drops his gaze. Washington is the ‘boss’ after all. The other men are looking at Thomas in surprise and distrust. He smiles as warmly as possible, then leans his head back in James’ arm. He feels James stiffen underneath him but resists the urge to look. He should trust James to play the part.

Adams clears his throat, gathering the attention of everyone. “Well, then. We’re just waiting on Schuyler, Tallmadge and Hamilton.”

“Just Schuyler,”” says someone from the back of the club. Thomas perks up and sees Hamilton and another, taller man coming in from what Thomas assumes to be a back entrance. Laurens cracks a grin.

“Yo, B.T.,” he calls, “been a while, man.”

 _So this is the elusive Benny T_ , Thomas thinks. Tallmadge strolls into the room, Hamilton following just behind. The man is exceedingly average in build, though kind of handsome with high cheekbones. Thin dreads hang neatly down his back and shoulders, and he has tattoos that cover his neck. Little ink flames lick all the way up to his cheeks. Thomas’ gut twists. _What is it this guy does_?

“Hey, John,” Tallmadge says, nodding to him. Tallmadge stops just outside the circle of chairs and plants his hands on his hips. “So, Alex tells me _someone_ finally decided to listen to me about Arnold.”

Thomas blinks, brow furrowing. He glances between Tallmadge and Washington. There’s a thin frown on Washington’s face, but he nods.  
“Yes, Tallmadge. You were correct in your suspicions,” Washington says. Tallmadge smiles, but there’s no teeth. It almost looks bitter.

“Sorry boss,” Tallmadge offers, then looks around the room. His gaze settles on Thomas and James and his smile falls. “Who are you?”

“William Clark.” Thomas offers his hand. Tallmadge takes it, his handshake firm but yielding.

“Clark, yes,” Tallmadge says, almost to himself. Then louder, he says to Thomas: “Ben Tallmadge. Call me Benny T.”

“You can just be Benny now,” one of the other men in the circle says. Tallmadge chuckles slightly. James sticks his hand out and introduces himself too. Tallmadge takes the seat to Thomas’ left, which leaves Hamilton standing in the center of the circle alone. He narrows his eyes at Thomas and opens his mouth to speak when the front door opens.

All heads snap to look as the door swings open slowly. From the outside emerges a young woman, holding the heavy door almost the whole way open on her own. She lets the door go and crosses the room, heels clicking against the floor. Her gaze is hard and determined until she sees Hamilton, and smiles.

“Angelica!” Hamilton exclaims, breaking out into a wide grin.

“Hello, Alexander,” Angelica says, reaching the circle. She puts her hands on the back of the open seat beside Tallmadge. “It’s good to see your face.”

“I knew you were back in the city, but I didn’t think you’d be around so soon!” Alexander says. “How’s Betsy and Peggs? And Phillip? And your father?”

“They’re fine, they’re all fine. We’ll catch up soon, Alex. I need to talk to the boss.”

“Of course, of course,” Alexander says, sheepishly. His eyes are still blazing, staring at the frankly beautiful woman in front of him. Angelica looks up at Washington.

“Miss Schuyler, welcome home,” Washington says, a faint but warm smile on his face.

“It’s good to be back, boss,” she says. Angelica straightens, putting her hands on her hips. “Might I say, you don’t look a day older than when I left.”

“Where’s your father, Angelica?” Washington asks, a slight chuckle in his voice. Angelica smiles and starts to walk, following the curve of the circle.

“Home.” Her hand trails behind the seats, and everyone keeps turning their heads to watch her move. “He sends his love.”

“Not really the answer I was looking for, Miss. Schuyler.”

Angelica smiles. Her ringlet hair bounces as she walks. Thomas is near mesmerized. She exudes confidence, and each sharp footsteps sends shivers down his spine. “I know, boss. But the thing is, Dad liked the vacation we took so much, he wants to make it permanent. He turned his governorship over to me.”

A mutter ripples across the circle. Angelica pays it no mind, coming to a stop behind the empty seat between two men and across the circle from Thomas. She keeps her gaze locked with Washington’s, obviously not willing to back down. Washington looks pensive, fingers drumming the turntables in front of him. Adams frowns and stands up so he’s level with Washington.

“Boss, I don’t know,” Thomas can hear Adams mutter, “A _woman_?”

“Angelica Schuyler would make a better boss than you would, Adams,” Hamilton snaps. “She should be in your position.” Adams glares at Hamilton, disgust across his face. Though it seems Adams is not alone in his opinion, if the expressions on some of the other men’s faces means anything. Angelica’s lips form a thin line, but she doesn’t look away from Washington.

Eventually, Washington speaks: “Let’s she how she does. Take a seat, Miss. Schuyler.” Angelica sits, legs crossed. The man to her right glares at her, but if she notices, she doesn’t do anything. She simply smiles and folds her hands in her lap. “Do you know what happened with Benedict Arnold today?” Washington asks. Angelica shakes her head and Adams begrudgingly launches into an explanation. Thomas glances around. There seems to be about a fifty-fifty split between the men who glare at Angelica and the men that look a bit more welcoming. _Interesting_ , Thomas thinks. This kind of split in opinion he could use, pit some people against each other. His eyes flick back and forth between Adams and Angelica, thinking.

“You're in my seat.” Thomas blinks, jerked out of his plotting at Hamilton’s words. He looks at the man who is trying his best to loom over Thomas threateningly.

“Hm?” Thomas asks.

“You're in my _seat_ ,” Hamilton says, hitting each word in a harsh staccato. Thomas twists in the chair, looking at the seatback.

“Your name isn't on it.” Thomas looks back at Hamilton. Hamilton scowls.

“I sit next to John and B.T.”

“So?”

“ _So?_ That’s the seat _you’re_ in.”

“There’s an open one right over there, Hamilton.” Thomas motions to the last empty seat. Hamilton doesn’t even glance at it before he launches into another tirade.

“Yes, but that’s not _my_ seat. That’s _Arnold’s_ seat. Or it was. If anything, it’s appropriate that _you_ sit there. You’re the great hero, aren’t you? Take the conquered man’s throne, sir. You _deserve_ to sit in the seat of a traitor. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, why are you even sitting in the circle? You don’t belong here. You’re not a governor _or_ a lieutenant, so you shouldn’t get a seat at _all_. For another thi-”

Washington clears his throat and Hamilton falls silent, still glaring at Thomas. “Well, about that,” he begins. “Since Arnold has so kindly provided a vacancy, I am going to promote Mr. Clark to a lieutenant position.”

“Say what now?” Thomas asks, but it’s lost underneath the muttering of the other men. Immediately, Hamilton whirls and is up against Washington’s podium in a blink.

“You can’t _do_ that Boss!” He says, standing on his toes to try and look Washington in the eye. Washington’s face is impassive as Hamilton practically spits words at him. “He can’t be a lieutenant!”

“He can, and he is,” Washington replies. “We can talk about this later.”

“Sir, I don’t think you’ve thought this through!” Hamilton grips the top of Washington’s podium hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “Have you forgotten who he is? That he-”

“I think _you’re_ forgetting who I am,” Thomas interrupts. Hamilton snaps his head to look at him, rage gleaming in his eyes. “Will Clark. _Drug dealer_.” Thomas puts as much emphasis on the words as he dares. He has no idea what Hamilton was about to say, but he does not want to be outed as a cop to everyone. “I suggest you watch yourself.”

“Well guess what _Clark_.” Hamilton spits the name out like it’s a curse word. “You’re in _my_ house now. Not your fancy little office, or the diner, or even the _street corner_.” Hamilton takes slow steps back across the circle to Thomas. “This is my domain, and what I say goes.  So _I_ suggest you _don’t_ try to threaten me here. Recognize that here, in this place, I can kick your ass and have at least fourteen people back me up. If you’re not going to leave, then sit down, shut up, and-” Hamilton leans into Thomas’ face “-give me back my _seat_.”

James’ hands tense behind Thomas. The entire ring is silent and Thomas can feel everyone’s glares on him. Washington is watching from on high, his face betraying no emotion. Angelica sits across the circle with a curious smile on her face. Lafayette looks concerned, but doesn’t move. Thomas readies himself, looks Hamilton straight in the eye, and says:

“No.”

The word falls like a brick in the quiet. Thomas swears he can almost hear it echo in the empty club. James is squeezing the seat back so hard Thomas is afraid it is going to break in his hands. Hamilton’s expression of anger falls into one of pure disbelief and shock. _Your turn_ , Thomas goads in his head. Almost as if Hamilton hears the challenge, his face hardens and he spins around. Before Thomas realizes what’s happening, Hamilton throws himself down onto Thomas’ lap and settles into him like Thomas was simply a seat cushion.

The sudden weight forces a bit of breath from Thomas’ lungs. Some of the men chuckle around them and Angelica smiles wide. Hamilton squirms in Thomas’ lap and looks at John.

“Did Laf get new seat covers? They’re not very comfortable,” he says. The chuckles turn to laughter as Thomas sputters.

“What the hell, Hamilton?” He says, spitting a mouthful of Hamilton’s hair from his mouth.

“Did you hear something, John?” Hamilton asks. “Thought I heard a fly or something.”

“Alexander,” Washington says. Hamilton looks up at Washington and, although Thomas cannot see it, he would bet his life savings that Hamilton’s expression is completely innocent.

“What, Boss?” Most of the men are outright laughing now. Thomas’ face starts to heat up. James shifts in place behind him as Thomas weighs his options. He needs to think of something, _fast_ , before he loses all respect from the men around him. He catches sight of Lafayette in the corner of his eye. Lafayette hesitates, then reaches up and tugs on his own hair. When Thomas doesn’t understand, Lafayette does it again, gestures at Alex and winks.

 _Oh_ , Thomas thinks, looking at the back of Hamilton’s head. _I wonder what this is going to do, then_. Thomas reaches up, threads his fingers through the base of Hamilton’s ponytail. The man’s hair is surprisingly soft between his fingers, and Thomas has to grip hard to pull on it. He pulls hard--not hard enough to hurt, but enough to tug harshly at Hamilton’s scalp. Hamilton’s head falls back into Thomas’ chest and before Thomas can really wonder what that was supposed to do, Hamilton makes this _noise_.

It takes Thomas a moment to realize it was a moan. And not one of pain either. The circle falls silent for a moment as everyone processes what just happened. His eyes widen and he tugs again, experimentally. This time Hamilton stifles so it only rumbles a little and tears himself away. He stumbles into a standing position as the group bursts into laughter all around him. He glances back at Thomas and he’s blushing _hard_. Thomas has to bite down on a finger to stop the laughter from bursting out. Hamilton glares around the circle but even John is laughing at him.

Part of Thomas wonders how Lafayette knew that would happen, but another part realizes he doesn’t want to know the answer to that question. B.T. claps Thomas on the back and wipes a tear from his eye.

“Holy shit man,” he breathes, “holy shit.”

Thomas grins back at him and shrugs. “Took a wild guess.”

As the group--minus Angelica and Washington--guffaws around him, Hamilton stomps over to Arnold's seat and drops into it. He scowls, crosses his arms and slouches down into his seat.

 _Point one, me,_ Thomas thinks. He makes a mental note to thank Lafayette later, but he settles for a smile in the man’s direction for now. Lafayette shoots him a thumbs up and a grin. James still hasn’t relaxed behind him, and Thomas pats one of his hands gently. He leans his head up to talk in James’ ear. James leans down to hear.

“See,” he says, “I’ve got this.”

James makes a noncommittal grunt and stands back up. Thomas rolls his eyes. If James wants to be a spoil-sport, he can be. Thomas is having a good time.

Then Thomas feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out just as Washington pulls everyone back to order. The frowns at the message he’s reading.

**From MommaMartha:**

**There’s a guy down at the precinct looking for you. Says he knows something about Arnold. Won’t talk to anyone else but you. Asked for you by name.**

“Mr. Clark, is everything okay?” Washington asks. Thomas looks up from his phone, then shows the message to James.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I gotta go is all. Problem down at the...warehouse.” Thomas stands and takes his phone back from James.

“You can’t go,” John says. “We haven’t even started.”

“Lewis can stay,” Thomas says. James starts, looking at him sharply. “He’ll be my envoy, alright?” Thomas looks at James, motioning to his now-empty seat. “I want a full report. Detailed. And I trust you to speak for me, okay?”

James’ eyes widen. He nods, but his eyes read _I’m not ready for this_.

 _You have to be,_ Thomas replies. James takes a breath and smiles.

“Sure, Will. Anything,” he says, looking like he’s melting on the spot. Right, ‘Lewis’ is in love in ‘Clark.’ Thomas nearly forgot.

“Call me when it’s over,” he says, cold and flippant. He turns on one heel and makes his way out of the circle. As he passes Hamilton, the man shoots him the bird. Thomas just smiles and walks out.

Thomas starts making his way down the street, simultaneously trying to hail a cab. As he walks, however, his mind keeps traveling back to...things. Hamilton’s face just inches away from his own, the feeling of Hamilton in his lap, the _moan_ \--because it was a moan that fell out of Hamilton’s mouth--the feeling of soft hair in his hands-

Thomas shoves the thoughts away and starts waving for cabs harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks in Thomas' direction and hums thoughtfully.*
> 
> Bit of a shorter chapter this time, but I'm happy with this.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> Benjamin Tallmadge was a person and we'll discuss him later.


	14. Do You Want To Play A Game Thomas?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running on the high from his first victory against Hamilton, Thomas walks into something he is utterly unprepared for.

Thomas steps out of the cab and pays the driver a little extra for the speed he drove. The cab takes off and Thomas walks into the precinct. The receptionist waves him in and he walks onto a busy floor full of cops rushing around. Phones are ringing off the hook and people of all shapes and sizes are sitting around, some in handcuffs, all looking slightly lost. Martha flags him down from across the bullpen.

“What’s going on around here?” He asks, having to raise his voice over the din. A familiar ache is starting to return behind his temple.

“Friday night in New York City,” she says as an explanation. She looks calm, but there’s a glint in her eye that tells Thomas the hubbub and noise of the precinct is starting to wear on her. Louis, on the other hand, is casually reclining in a waiting chair and flicking through a magazine. His legs are kicked over the leg of his chair and he bounces them in time to a tune he’s humming.

“So where’s this fellow who asked for me?” Thomas asks. Louis motions vaguely in the direction of the meeting room with Thomas’ maps.

“Put him in there,” Louis says, not taking his eyes off the magazine. “Told him not to touch anything.”

“Thanks, guys,” Thomas drawls. “Leave the guy completely alone.” Louis drops the magazine on his lap.

“We left Sally in there with him!” Louis protests. “Besides, what would he do? This place is filled with cops. It is a _police station_ , after all.” Thomas rolls his eyes and swats Louis on the head as he passes him on the way to the meeting room. He chuckles at Louis half-hearted protests of abuse and walks into his makeshift office/meeting room.

Inside, with the door shut, the noise of the precinct is deadened somewhat. Thomas revels in the quiet for a moment as he fishes his bottle of Tylenol from his pocket. Sally stands against the wall, gaze flicking between Thomas and the other man in the room. He’s got his back to her, examining the maps on the wall with a tilted head. If he heard Thomas come into the room, he hasn’t reacted. Thomas throws two tablets into his mouth, swallows with spit, and clears his throat.

“Good evening, Mr…?” Thomas trails. The man does not turn, does not flinch. His hands are clasped behind his back, white skin and golden watch accented against the bright red he’s wearing. Thomas frowns. “Sir?” He asks again, but get no response. Thomas glances as Sally, who shrugs.

“Hasn’t talked but to ask for you,” she explains. This finally seems to spark something in the man, who looks over his shoulder at Thomas. Hazel-green eyes pierce into Thomas, an odd coldness to the gaze. Gemstone earrings glitter under the fluorescent lights. Then the man smiles, a slow creeping thing that seems to take several moments to fully form.

“Agent Thomas Jefferson,” he says, a slight British lilt to his words. He says Thomas’ name as if it is a novelty all to its own. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry I took so long, I was on the other side of town,” Thomas says. The man hums and looks back up at the map. He raises one hand and plants a finger on the little blue pin on the precinct they’re in. The man drags his finger up the street, then makes a turn at an intersection, and follows the grid until his finger finally lands on the multi-colored cluster that is _The Fighting Frenchman_.

“I suppose that really is a trip, especially in traffic,” he says lightly. “I forgive you, then.” He turns back to Thomas with that same, bright, white smile, though his eyes don’t smile with him. A chill travels down Thomas’ spine. The man finally turns all the way around, brunette hair bouncing slightly and lays his hands against the table. “We are going to talk, you and I.”

“Well, yes, that is what you came for.” Thomas crosses his arms over his chest. The man looks at him but says nothing. The silence stretches on, and Thomas feels the urge to squirm or look away. Instead, he motions for the man to start speaking. Still, the man says nothing, but his gaze does flick away from Thomas for a heartbeat. The man glances at Sally, and then looks back at Thomas. He tilts his head and one of his eyebrows inches up ever so slightly.

Thomas gets the message. Without looking away, he says: “Sally, why don’t you go see if Martha or Louis needs anything?”

“Hm?” Sally asks, coming off the wall. “Shouldn’t I say-”

“Listen to your boss, Agent Hemmings,” the man breaks in. Sally starts and looks at Thomas in concern. Thomas swallows.

“Go, Sally. Please,” he adds. Sally hesitates, then nods. She pats Thomas on the shoulder as she leaves. Thomas wants to look at her, but he feels that breaking eye-contact with the strange man in front of him is akin to losing this game they’ve started to play. Because Thomas can feel that this _is_ a game, somehow. He just needs to figure out how to win.

The door clicks behind Sally and the man straightens. He rolls his head, Thomas can hear the bones crack in his neck, but only breaks eye-contact for a brief moment before his laser-like focus is back on Thomas. Thomas clears his throat again.

“You said you had information about Benedict Arnold?” Thomas prompts. He does not sit, will not give the height advantage to this man. Thomas may only be an inch or two taller, but he will take any advantage against him that he can. If this man wants to play a game, Thomas will play. Thomas will play to win.

The man nods. “I have been friends with Benedict for a while now, you see,” he says, his fingertips trailing back and forth on the table. “His brother-in-law’s roommate is a _very_ good friend of mine, and he introduced us. I knew Benny was wrapped up in some...unsavory characters, but I never thought anything like this would happen.”

“That’s what happens when you run with criminals and thugs,” Thomas says, taking a stab in the dark. It must be the wrong thing to say as the man blinks and puts a hand to his chest.

“Why, Agent Jefferson. Some of those ‘criminals and thugs’ are my best friends, I’ll have you know.” The man clicks his tongue. “And that’s not even what I meant either.” He looks away, almost as if he’s disappointed in Thomas. Thomas swallows, knowing he has ground to make up now, and says:

“Well, then. You should know people like that occasionally run afoul of the law.” But the man is already sighing and shaking his head.

“No, no, no. You’re smarter than that, Agent Jefferson. Think,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue with a _click_. “Think about what I am saying to you.”

Thomas bites back a rude remark and grits his jaw. He’s already losing. The man keeps talking.

“Anyway, Benny comes to me yesterday, all upset and out of sorts and asks if he can borrow some cash. He tells me he’s in a tight spot and he and his wife need to get out of town. I tell him I can do him one better: enough money to get him, his wife, _and_ his brother-in-law out. He asks me if I’m serious, and I say ‘of course, dear! You’ve been such a good friend, here’s the money, get yourself some train tickets.’ He thanks me and runs off. Imagine my shock when I turn on the news this morning and there’s a _manhunt_ going on for my dear Benny. I just _knew_ I had to come down here and tell someone about what happened.”

There is an innocent expression and tilt to the man’s voice that raises goosebumps on Thomas’ neck. It’s almost like the man isn’t even trying to disguise the fact that he’s lying. “So you didn’t know that Arnold was a wanted man when you gave him the money.”

“Of course not,” he says, mock-offended, “I would have marched him right down to the police myself if I had.”

_Yeah, sure_ , Thomas thinks but doesn’t voice it. Instead, he says: “Did Arnold tell you where he was going?”

The man sighs, almost--but not quite--regretfully. “No, I afraid he didn’t. But wherever he is--” the man looks at Thomas with a sliver of a smile and a conspiratorial look “--I’m sure he’s perfectly safe, with good people to look after and protect him. And if I was going to put money on it, I’d say that Benny and his family aren’t _ever_ going to be found.”

Thomas’ breath catches in his chest. If he’s understanding right, either this man helped Arnold escape...or killed him. Thomas forces himself to remain outwardly calm. He smiles back at the man. “And I would take you up on that bet,” he says. The man quirks an eyebrow.

“Oh, confident in that, are we?” The man asks, laughter in his voice. “Tell me, do you think you’re good at finding missing people?” He’s mocking Thomas, and Thomas decides to not let it slide.

“I’d say me and the rest of my team are _very_ good at people we want to find.” Thomas looks pointedly at the maps behind the man. “We found Arnold once, didn’t we?”

The man looks over his shoulder at the map and hums. “I suppose you did, in a way…” He turns back to Thomas. “He certainly wasn’t expecting to be caught red-handed, as it were.” The man chuckles, but Thomas stays quiet. “Red-handed? Because he was working with Redcoats? No?” The man sighs. “Get a sense of humor, Agent Jefferson. That one was good.”

“Agree to disagree,” Thomas says. The man sighs again, shoulders raising and dropping dramatically.

“If you insist…” he trails, looking down at the table. Thomas bites the inside of his cheek and crosses his arms.

“Well, thank you for coming in Mr…”

“You’re very welcome, Agent Jefferson.” The man traces circles on the table with a finger. “But I have one more thing. A little...request if you will?”

Thomas debates the merits of humoring the man. Shutting him down might mean Thomas wins, but he gets the feeling the man should just override him and keep talking. Thomas settles for saying: “Depends on the favor.”

Immediately, the man looks up. The smirk is gone, replaced with a pleading expression that looks like the man is about to break out into tears. The sudden change in demeanor makes Thomas blink in shock, leaning back and away. Just like everything else the man has done, it sits just on the wrong side of genuine or convincing.

“Agent Jefferson, I am just fit to be tied,” he starts, his hand curling into a fist on the table. “A good friend of mine has gone missing and I am just so worried!”

“Have you filed a missing person’s report?” Thomas asks, terrified yet more than a little curious to see where this is going. The man shakes his head sadly.

“I’m not allowed to do that until he’s been gone for three days, and it’s only been about a day. But he won’t answer any calls or texts, and he’s normally so available! I even went by his place earlier and the _whole place_ is trashed. It honestly looks like he got robbed or attacked and I’m so scared something bad happened to him.” Tears are gathering in the man’s eyes, though Thomas thinks they’re of the crocodile kind.

“If he’s only been missing for a day, he could easily show up soon,” Thomas says. The man’s face turns even more pathetic.

“But...but...I...please! You have to help find him!” The man begs, his hands curled around the table edge like he’s ready to break off a piece and beat Thomas with it. Thomas eyes him cautiously, then asks:

“What’s his name?”

The man’s face brightens, his hands relax and he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a photograph of a young man with shaved hair that Thomas recognizes as-

“Aaron Burr Jr,” the man announces, handing the photo to Thomas. Thomas stares at it in the man’s outstretched hand. He slowly takes the picture, it’s a copy of Burr’s driver’s license photo. The man must see something on Thomas’ face because he gasps. “Do you know him?”

“Why are you looking for Burr?” Thomas asks instead of answering. The man blinks.

“Is friendship and worry not a good enough answer for you?” He asks. Thomas looks up at the man with the best ‘stop fucking with me’ expression he has. The man looks back for a moment, then drops the faux-upset expression and chuckles. “You’re starting to understand, Agent Jefferson. Good.”

“Why are you looking for Burr?” Thomas repeats, more insistent this time. He glances at the photo in his hand, hoping that Burr isn’t already at the bottom of the Hudson.

“If I’m honest with you, Thomas,” the man begins. Thomas frowns at the use of his first name, but the man goes on as if he doesn’t notice. “Aaron...stole something from me that I would _really_ like back.”

Thomas knows it’s stupid to ask if this man has filed a robbery report or anything, so he simply asks: “What do you want me to do about that?” The man smiles.

“Well, I was thinking...you and I could do each other a favor. You and your team can start looking for Aaron, and I and my friends will too. If I find Burr, I’ll simply take my stuff back and then call you up. I’ll make sure you find Aaron with all the evidence you need to know that he was behind the Safe Harbors Massacre.”

“Was he?” Thomas asks. The man outright laughs.

“He can be,” he says, grin wide. “He can very easily be. However, if you and your team find him first, _you_ give _me_ a call. I come by, pick up my things, and tell you where the evidence you need is. No one has to know. I’m just taking something that was already mine back. Hell, it’ll cut down on your paperwork. Think about it, Thomas-” the man slowly walks around the table, his fingers trailing behind him. “-I get what my stuff, you get your killer, and we both get to go home happy, healthy and _safe_.” Thomas gets a chill on the last word, the man staring him directly in the eye. They’re mere steps away from each other now.

“And what if I don’t?” Thomas asks. “What if I find Burr and _don’t_ tell you?”

The man’s smile does not slip, but it changes. Instead of the almost affable grin, it morphed into something decidedly unkind. Something dangerous. The man’s footsteps do not falter but become more pointed. “Well, Thomas, then you will have made me your enemy.” He takes one last step so that he is a hair's’ breadth away, their chests nearly touching. Thomas does not flinch as the man leans his face up into Thomas’. His smile disappears and his face goes neutral. “People who become my enemy do not stick around to be my enemy for very long.”

“Is that a threat?” Thomas asks, fighting the urge to lean away, to give in. The man chuckles, a gentle smile returning to his face.

“No, no of course not.” The man’s shoulders relax and he takes a single step backward. “I would never threaten _you,_ Thomas.”

“Smart,” Thomas remarks.

“I am, however-” the man tilts his head down so he’s looking up at Thomas through his eyelashes. “-threatening Mr. William Clark.”

Thomas’ stomach drops. It lands on the floor at his feet and he prays that the man can’t see it. His prayers go unanswered as the man tilts his head, presses a finger to his chin and says: “Well, that might as well be that same thing.” Thomas swallows, unable to form words. The man giggles, and reaches into his pocket again.

“My card,” he says, handing Thomas a little paper square. It’s not a business card, per se, only a little torn strip of paper with a number and a little doodle of a crown. Thomas doesn’t move to take it, not wanting to let the man see his hands shake. The man tuts reaches down and pushes the paper into Thomas’ front pocket. He looks up, a satisfied smile on this face.

“Call me sometime, sugar.” The man reaches up and pats Thomas directly on the cheek gently. “Ask for Georgie.” Before Thomas can react, the man slips around him and to the meeting room door. Thomas turns, unable to find anything to say to this man. The man reaches the door, looks over his shoulder at Thomas, grins and blows a kiss. With that, he opens the door and slips out.

Just as Thomas figures it’s okay to breathe again, he hears the man speak from the other side of the open door.

“Why, Agent James Madison,” he says. Thomas lurches into action, crossing to the door and throwing it open. James is standing there, looking at the man with a confused expression on his face. The man, however, is smiling and tapping his fingers gently on James’ shoulder. “You look absolutely _darling_ in that suit. You really must save it, wear it to a funeral.” The man walks away, polished shoes clicking against the tile. Before he’s too far away, he adds: “Or, maybe you could be buried in it.” With that, he looks at Thomas one last time, the look in his eyes nothing short of a promise.

When the man finally disappears around a corner, James turns to look at Thomas. “Who was that?” He asks. Thomas stares at the spot the man had just been, still not breathing.

“James,” he says, lowly, “I think George King just threatened your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I'm about to be hella busy tomorrow so have an early update!
> 
> Okay but I high key love this chapter despite it being on the shorter side, again. King George was so fun to write. (Also chapter lengths are about to pick up like crazy.)
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> George William Freidrich, aka King George III was King of Great Britain and Ireland from 1760 to 1811, when he was forced to abdicate the throne for due to illness, possibly porphyria. He developed dementia towards the end of his life, leaving him unable to understand many of the events of his later life. "When you're gone, I'll go mad!" Yes, yes he did, but not for many years after the revolution. Despite his negative view in the Americas, much of the British people loved him, especially towards the end of his reign. He was the third longest ruling English monarch (59 years), just behind Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II, and the longest for his time. He was honestly a pretty good ruler and only fought to keep the American colonies on the principal that his Parliment should have the right to levy taxes and to help maintain the British economy, not because he was an asshole tyrant. That's not going to stop me from using the more 'unstable, kinda-creepy, sexually charged, almost insane' version of King George from the musical. This isn't tagged under 18th century RPF after all.
> 
> See you next Saturday.


	15. So Begins The Race To Find Aaron Burr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe Aaron Burr is fucking dead.

Thomas is still shaking ten minutes later when all the available members of his team are gathered in the meeting room. Steuben is out and Ben’s still at the hotel, so it’s everyone else, plus Sybil, in the semi-quiet of the room. Thomas glares at the table, running his conversation with King in his mind over and over again. He’s seated now, not completely trusting his knees to hold him up.

The door opens and Revere enters, clutching a piece of paper. “Yep, that was George King,” he says, throwing the paper onto the table. It’s a print-out of a still from a security camera. King is looking directly at the camera, a calm smile on his face as Sally watches from the other side of the frame.

“King just waltzed into your precinct, threatened a federal agent, and waltzed right on out without anyone noticing?” James asks. Revere pinches his nose and sighs.

“We’re busy tonight,” he says, an apology in his voice.

“This isn’t completely our fault. How did none of you recognize him? You’ve all seen his picture!” Sybil exclaims.

“Sybil,” Revere says, but Sybil pushes on ahead.

“And, _and_ , you let a strange man stay one-on-one with Agent Hemmings _and_ Agent Jefferson?”

“ _Sybil_.”

“No, sir,” she whirls on Revere, ponytail flying. “If they’re going to accuse us of letting King slip through our fingers, they get some of the blame too.”

“No one’s accusing anyone of anything,” Louis says. Sybil snaps her head to look at him.

“Sure sounded like it,” she says. “Look, we’re having more dispatch calls than officers available to take them. We don’t have time to sit around and watch for King to just show up!”

“You were the one that shoved King into my arms and left me to fend for myself,” Martha says, glaring at Sybil. “If there’s anyone here that should have recognized him, it was _you_.”

“ _I’ve lost two men tonight_!” Sybil yells. “Two men! Shot _dead_! The best suspects, by the way, happen to be two of your little Sons of Liberty friends.” Revere puts a hand on Sybil’s shoulders, but she’s red-faced in rage and shaking almost as hard as Thomas is. “Two of my best men are dead, so forgive me for being a little all over the place.”

“Sybil, please,” Louis says. “Calm down.”

“No! I will not calm down until I can go back out there-” she points at the closed door “-and figure out who shot Cresston and Heins!”

“Enough!” Thomas says, hitting the table. Everyone jumps, and their head snaps to where he’s sitting at the table. His fists are clenched on the table, and he takes a deep breath. “We all messed up tonight. We’re all to blame for letting King just walk out. But that’s the past.” Thomas looks around the room, finding eye contact with everyone in turn. “It’s over and done with. We have to deal with it.”

“So what do we do?” Sally asks.

“First,” Thomas says, “we find Aaron Burr. Before King does.”

\--------------

 “I swear, if Burr’s done somethin’ and ya’ll are just using me to get in his place I’m gonna sue you pig bastards,” Burr’s landlady mutters as she leads Thomas and James to Burr’s apartment.

“I told you the truth, Burr might be in danger,” Thomas says. James huffs along up the last portion of the stairs behind him. They reach the landing and watch the landlady reach for Burr’s doorknob. Her fingers just barely brush it and the door swings open.

“Huh,” the woman says, backing up from the door. “She’s all yours, I guess.” She watches Thomas and James like a hawk as they approach the door. Thomas frowns.

“The top hinges are broken,” he mutters to James. James follows his gaze, nods and pulls a gun out of his suit jacket.

“Woah, woah. Ya’ll didn’t say nothing about guns,” the woman says, backing away quickly.

“Just stay in the hall, ma’am,” Thomas says, drawing his own weapon. He looks at James, who nods, and steels himself. He pushes the door open slowly with one hand, the pistol stuck out in front of him. The door creaks on broken hinges as it opens. “Aaron Burr?” he calls. “FBI, Jefferson and Madison.”

There is no response from within. Thomas takes another steadying breath and pushes the door open all the way.

Burr’s apartment is wrecked. The careful organization is long gone beneath overturned chairs and broken glass. The hall is covered in shattered bottles of beer and whiskey, dried liquid staining the wooden floor. Further inside is not much better. Burr’s dining room table has been broken in half, the two chairs thrown across the living room. The tv is shattered and the couch is ripped to shreds.

He takes a step inside, hearing glass crunch beneath his feet. “Burr?” he calls again. “Answer if you’re here.” The only reply is silence. Thomas slowly makes his way to the kitchen/living room, James just behind him. If Thomas were to describe the status of the apartment, he’d say it was like a tornado full of broken glass and baseball bats tore through.

They check what remains of the greater apartment, finding no signs of life. No blood either, which is a good thing. Then, Thomas still leading the way, they move on to the small hall that juts off to the side. Thomas keeps his gun raised, careful. James pushes open the door on the right, and announces the bathroom inside to be clear. Thomas turns to the left, takes a breath and opens the door. The moment the door swings open, his hand is back on his gun. He nudges it all the way open with his shoulder and gasps.

The bedroom is worse than the living room. The furniture is relatively intact, but there’s a blood splatter on the opposite wall and a large patch on the ground by the foot of the bed. The comforter is stained as well, but most of it is soaked into the wooden floor. Thomas traces the dark splotch with his eyes, his gaze travelling across the entire room.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “What happened to Burr?”

\------------

Within the hour, Burr’s apartment looks like a tv crime show set. There’s CSI crawling all over, slowly tagging and photographing the place. Thomas watches as a man takes measurements of the bedroom bloodstain and jots the numbers down.

“How long until we know how hold it is?” He asks. The man shrugs.

“Whenever the lab boys get back to you,” he says in a thick Brooklyn accent.

“Give me a guess.”

The man sighs, stands and eyes the bloodstain. “I’d say...this was left sometime last night.”

Thomas frowns and glances at his watch. It’s almost 3:00 in the afternoon. He does some mental calculations. Arnold disappeared this time yesterday, the Sons meeting had been this morning, and the conversation with King had been only an hour-and-a-half ago. His stomach grumbles and Thomas realizes he hasn’t eaten lunch. Hell, he barely remembers sleeping last night. His head is pounding and Thomas just wants five minutes alone, with nothing to worry about.

This is going to be a long day.

“Thanks,” he says, rubbing his temples. The man grunts and returns to his tape measure. Thomas turns away from the bedroom, trying not to imagine what happened to Burr to leave that much blood. He walks back into the living room where James is directing people and delegating tasks.

“Where’s everyone?” he mutters to James.

“Martha’s talking to the landlady and Sally’s going over all the security footage Ben found. Louis is canvassing the building with one of Sybil’s boys,” James says. He must see something on Thomas’ face because he asks: “Are you feeling okay?”

“Just worried,” Thomas lies. “There’s a whole lotta blood in there.” James looks like he doesn’t quite believe Thomas, but he doesn’t say anything. “His phone and his wallet are still on the counter.”

“Makes one wonder if Burr’s even still alive,” James says, lowly. Thomas swallows.

“He’s still alive. Why else would King approach us?” He whispers, turning his face away from the other people in the room.

“True,” James breathes. “Could be a bluff.”

“I don’t think it is, Jemmy.”

James rolls his shoulders and lets out a breath. “What’s our next move then?”

Thomas thinks for a moment, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “We could call Hamilton.”

“Hamilton? Why?” James asks, turning his head to look at Thomas. Thomas shrugs.

“Or any of the Sons, really. Hamilton’s just the first name I thought of. Someone might know where Burr is.”

James hums, then nods. “Worth a shot.”

Thomas whips out his phone and finds Hamilton’s text from earlier that day. He quickly stores the number--’Short Stack’ Thomas names him--and calls. The phone rings until a nice robotic lady informs him that the person he’s trying to reach hasn’t set up his voicemail yet. Thomas is automatically hung up on, but he tries again. The phone rings twice before going into the voicemail again.

 _Hamilton sent me into his non-existent voicemail,_ Thomas realizes as he pushes the ‘call’ button for a third time. _That fucker_. James raises an eyebrow as Thomas puts his phone up to his ear again. The phone rings once, twice, three times, then:

“‘Ello?” Lafayette’s voice comes over the phone.

“Laf, it’s...Clark,” Thomas says catching himself at the last second.

“Oh, Clark!” Laf says, his voice perking up. “No wonder Alex shoved his phone at me and told me to pick up for him.” Thomas hears Hamilton protesting in the background, something about ‘you weren’t supposed to let him know that!’

“Yeah, that would explain it,” Thomas chuckles. “By the way, thanks for the...tip. About the hair.”

“We all need to work together, no?” Laf says. “So, what is it you need?”

“I wanted to know if anyone has spoken to or seen Aaron Burr in the last 24 hours or so,” Thomas says. Laf hums, then says:

“Well, I have not, hold on a second.” Laf’s voice gets quieter as he asks if anyone around him knows where Aaron Burr is. There’s a silence, then: “No, sorry. Not even Alexander has talked to him.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas insists.

“Positively. Is Burr alright?” Laf asks. Thomas hesitates, considering his answer. The silence must be enough for Lafayette to draw his own conclusions though. “Can you not find him?”

“No, we...can’t.”

“Is he missing?” Lafayette asks. Before Thomas can answer, Lafayette shushes someone, then there’s a battering sound like someone is fighting him for the phone.

“Laf?” Thomas can hear nothing but a struggle.

“ _Goddamnit, Laf, it’s my phone!_ ” Hamilton says. “ _Give it_.”

“ _You gave it to me to talk._ ” Laf’s voice is muffled, like he’s holding the phone away from his face.

“ _I’m taking it back!_ ”  
Then there’s a sound like the phone hitting the floor. Thomas winces at the sudden noise but then Hamilton is speaking.

“What have you done with Burr?” He asks. Lafayette is saying something in the background but Alex shushes him.

“Nothing, Hamilton. We’re just _looking_ for him,” Thomas says.

“Why? What do you want him for, huh?”

“Why are you so concerned?”

“Why are you looking for Burr?” Hamilton insists. Thomas sighs.

“We think he might be in danger and we’re trying to _help_ him, okay Hamilton? Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“He’s in _danger_?!” Hamilton yells. “What kind of danger?”

Thomas opens his mouth to reply when James is tapping on his shoulder. Thomas looks up, and finds that Sally, Martha and Louis have all returned. Sally is holding out her phone, presumably for Ben on the other side. “Gotta go Hamilton.”

“What?! No, wait! Tell me-”

Thomas hangs up and shoves his phone back into his pocket. Almost immediately, it rings, but Thomas ignores it in favor of his teammates. “What have we got?” He asks.

“Security footage and some witnesses that gave us enough information to put together a basic timeline.” James looks down at a pad of paper in his hand. “At 1:32 in the morning, a man with a baseball bat breaks the window leading to the basement of this building. A few minutes later, he opens the front door from the inside and lets three other men in. All four are wearing masks and jackets. The man above Burr’s apartment says he heard a commotion starting around 1:40ish that lasted about ten or fifteen minutes, then it went silent. At 1:46, all four men leave the building and head north. Skip ahead to 2:20 am, and Burr leaves the building going south and limping. He does not come back.” James shows Thomas the paper, which just details what James said.

“That’s it?” Thomas asks.

“Not quite,” Ben says. “I’m jumping around to CCTV cameras in the area, and I can track Burr for almost twelve blocks. He goes north, then east, cuts through Morningside Park, takes a few zig-zaggy turns and uses a few back alleys, but then I lose him after nearly 45 minutes of walking. Well, limping and bleeding all along New York streets.”

“So, Burr was last seen alive at...3:05 in the morning, give or take.” Thomas scrawls the timestamp down on James’ notepad.

“Note that Burr passed _at least_ two cop cars and an Urgent Care. So I have no clue where he was going. Also: two sets of cops saw him walking down the street, heavily injured and didn’t do ja-”

“Well, wouldn’t you look at that, Ben. These police officers standing in earshot haven't heard you yet. Why don’t you speak louder?” Thomas hisses into the phone.

“Well I’m sorry,” Ben says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just stating the facts.”

“Would you just give me Burr’s last location you can confirm?”

\---------------

Thomas and James stand on the intersection of 124th, Manhattan Ave. and St. Nicholas Ave. The five-way intersection is teeming with cars and pedestrians. Thomas looks around, but can’t find anything that would appeal to a wounded man at 3:05 in the morning.

“He wouldn’t go into a Chuck E. Cheese’s would he?” Thomas asks, eyeing the smiling mascot from across the street. “I mean, if I wanted to hide from violent criminals, I’d go to a Chuck E. Cheese’s. Hide right behind those fucking creepy robots. No one would dare come get me.”

James breathes a laugh. Thomas laughs with him, picturing Burr crouched behind an animatronic mouse, hiding for his life in the darkened play-space. He looks at his partner, mirth still dancing in James’ eyes. It’s moments like this that make the job bearable, why Thomas can face death and other unspeakables and still come into work each morning.

He opens his mouth to continue to joke when, over James’ head, he spots them. Hamilton and Laurens, walking down the street in their direction. “James,” he says, ducking his head. “Cross the street, quickly. Don’t look behind you, no-” James looks over his shoulder and spots the two gangsters. “-damnit James, let’s go before-”

“Jefferson and Madison, what are you two doing here?” Hamilton asks, stopping at the corner with Laurens.

“Things,” Thomas replies. “We were just leaving.”

“Shouldn’t you be looking for Burr?” Hamilton asks, frowning.

“We are, Hamilton.”

“Then what are you doing in the middle of a random intersection, huh? Trying to canvas New York by foot?” He asks, mockingly. Laurens snorts. Thomas glowers, but James slips his hand onto Thomas’ wrist and squeezes. Thomas takes a deep breath.

“No, this is the last confirmed place Burr was seen alive, if you need to know.”

Hamilton perks up at that, head snapping around and scanning the intersection like Burr was hiding behind a lamppost or something. “How do you know? Did you see him? Are there witnesses?” Hamilton shot off question after question, but left Thomas no time to answer any of them. “Was he hurt? Did he-?”

“Slow down, Hamilton,” Thomas broke in. “Take a breath.”

“Chill, Alex,” Laurens breaks in, putting a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. “Burr’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that!” Hamilton exclaims. “Burr doesn’t just disappear. He’s not the type to!”

And idea occurs to Thomas. “I know, but-” Laurens begins, but Thomas breaks in.

“How well would you say you know Aaron Burr?” He takes a step closer to Hamilton. The shorter man narrows his eyes.

“Well enough,” he says. “We’re...close.”

“You say that with some hesitance.” Thomas frowns.

“Well, no one’s really ‘close’ to Burr.” Hamilton says the word ‘close’ with air quotes. Laurens rolls his eyes.

“You’re the only person he really talks to.” Laurens says. Hamilton looks like he’s about to protest, but shuts his mouth when Laurens teases: “I’m right and you know it.”

“Do you think you could help us out then?” Thomas asks, smile creeping across his face.

“What are you thinking?” James asks. Thomas flashes a grin at him quickly, then turns back to Hamilton. Hamilton is looking at him suspiciously, arms crossed.

“Maybe. Depends on what you want,” he says. Thomas takes a step forward, James trailing behind.

“If you were Aaron Burr, where would you go from here?” Thomas motions around him. Hamilton’s expression of suspicion changes to confusion.

“What? How am I supposed to know that?” He asks.

“Make a guess,” Thomas prompts. Hamilton glances around himself, peering over the heads of the crowd around him.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t go into a chuck-e-cheese’s,” he drawls.

“Okay, keep going,” Thomas says. Hamilton sighs in exasperation, and looks back at him.

“He jumped down a manhole, how am I supposed to know?” He’s got one eyebrow cocked, and he’s looking at Thomas like he’s suggested that Hamilton try and describe what it’s like to be a hippogriff. Thomas stifles a sigh and slips around Hamilton so he’s standing behind him. Hamilton twists to keep Thomas in his sights. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you figure out where Burr would go. Stand still,” Thomas commands, and grabs Hamilton by the shoulders so that he’s facing away from Thomas. Hamilton grumbles and shrugs Thomas off. “Alright. Shut your eyes,” he says, reaching for Hamilton’s head. He gently cups his hands over Hamilton’s ears, trying not to dig his fingertips into the other man’s scalp as he violently twists away.

“What the hell?! Don’t touch me!” He says, jumping about a foot away and whirling on Thomas. “What is that for?” Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Do you want to help find Burr?” He asks. Hamilton nods jerkily.

“Of course.”

“Then let me hold your ears.” Hamilton looks at him incredulously, like he can’t quite believe what Thomas has asked of him. For a second, Thomas thinks Hamilton is going to refuse, but the Carribean marches back over to Thomas and turns around. Hamilton presses his back into Thomas’ chest. Laurens has this odd smirk on his face and Hamilton flips him off. Thomas returns his hands to their place on the sides of Hamilton's head, shifting them slightly until they’re placed just right. He opens one slightly so Hamilton can still hear him say: “Eyes shut, then.”

“Why?” Hamilton asks. Thomas makes a little noise of frustration in the back of his throat.

“Do it, Hamilton. It’ll make sense in a moment.” Thomas peers over Hamilton’s shoulders to find that Hamilton already has his eyes screwed shut tight. “Relax,” he says, leaning his head down close to the open hand. “You need to relax,” he all but whispers. Pressed up against Hamilton’s back, Thomas can feel his shoulders relax slowly, Hamilton taking deep breaths. He looks up to spot Laurens looking at him, lips pursed and eyebrows raised. James motions to the freckled man and Thomas can hear James’ explaination.

“Thomas is using a technique that we use to help witnesses recall details about whatever they saw. Isolate their senses and return them to the scene of the crime imaginatively. This is going to be a little different though. Thomas is going to try and put Hamilton into Burr’s frame of mind last night.”

“Does that really work?” Laurens asks.

“Sometimes.”

Laurens asks another question, but Thomas shuts it out. He needs to focus. He leans back down into Hamilton's ear but realizes he's too close to him to really simulate being alone. So Thomas takes a step back so their bodies are no longer touching. The slight warmth between their bodies disappears and Hamilton starts to lean back, almost as if he's searching for Thomas’ presence. Thomas steadies the man with his grip on his head, but leans his head in again.

Hovering just above Hamilton’s right shoulder, Thomas gets as close as he dares and begins to whisper:

“It is three o’clock in the morning. It's co-”

Thomas feels Hamilton shiver under his hands as he interrupts. “No it's not. It's almost f--”

“Hamilton. Go with it.”

“Fine.”

Thomas starts again. “It's three in the morning. It's cold, and wind pulls at you from down the street. The sky is clouded over and the only light is from the streetlights and a neon sign across the street.” Thomas feels Hamilton’s shoulders relax further. “You are alone, the street is deserted and there's no one in any of the shops. But you're scared. You keep glancing over your shoulder, looking for a tail. You're terrified because someone might be following you. Someone who means you harm.”

Hamilton tenses again, but doesn't interrupt, doesn't move out of Thomas’ grasp. Thomas takes this as a sign that Hamilton is buying into it. “You're injured. One of your eyes is swollen shut and there's a half-healed wound on your head. A rib or two is broken or bruised. Your left leg hurts to the point that it’s almost too much to stand on.” Hamilton’s weight shifts almost entirely to his right leg and Thomas smiles. “Despite that, you've limped almost twelve blocks to be here, and you've still got somewhere to go.

“The people you're watching out for are the ones who did this to you. They broke into your apartment and beat you until you were in this state. They were looking for something, something _you_ stole from them. You're the only person who knows where it is and you are desperate to keep it that way. They can't find it, not while you're still alive.

“You don’t think they’re following you anymore. You're exhausted, hurting and terrified. You don't have your cell phone or your wallet. You might have some cash on you, you might not. It is three o’clock in the morning, you are standing at this intersection, your name is Aaron Burr. Where do you go and what do you do?”

Thomas holds his breath, closing up Hamilton's ear again, and hopes for the best. Hamilton breathes raggedly, swallows and says:

“I...I...I take a left.” Hamilton’s voice is soft, softer than Thomas has ever heard him speak before. “I take a left and head down the street. I follow the sidewalk for four blocks until I hit an apartment building. I limp up the stairs, hit the call for Abigail Smith. When she lets me in I pay her fifty dollars for a place to sleep. If I have it, I give her another fifty for her silence.”

“And if you don’t have cash on you?” Thomas asks. Hamilton takes another breath.

“I knock on her door anyway. Promise a favor. I don’t like promising favors, but I’m desperate.”

“Does she give you a bed for a promise?”

“Yes. She knows I would be good for it. But I don’t get a promise of silence.”

Thomas smiles and pulls his hands away from Hamilton’s head. He takes a step back as Hamilton turns around. He blinks, looking around himself like he legitimately forgot it wasn’t early in the morning. “That was...weird,” he says, slowly. Thomas chuckles.

“So I’ve been told,” Thomas says. “Can you take us to this Smith lady?”

Hamilton frowns. “If I...Burr had enough money on him, you’re not getting any information out of her.”

“Can’t hurt to try.” Thomas motions to the left. Hamilton sighs, rolls his eyes and sets off through the crowd. Thomas follows behind, James coming up to walk beside him. Laurens pushes past them and reaches Hamilton.“

“ _Apuesto a que disfrutaste._ ” Laurens says. Thomas blinks. It’s not French...Spanish maybe?

“ _Vete a la mierda, John.”_ Hamilton spits. It’s most certainly Spanish. If Thomas had to take a guess, Hamilton had told John to fuck off, but that’s only because one of the words he used almost sounded like “merde,” which was French for ‘fuck.’ He explains his guess to James in a whisper, and his partner nods.

“I don’t know Spanish,” he says.

“Neither do I, but maybe I can take a few guesses…” Thomas trailed, focusing again on the conversation ahead of them.

_"No no! Es lindo. Alexander Hamilton, enamorándose del asombroso-"_

_"No estoy ‘enamorado.’_ ” Hamilton glares at the taller man, who laughs.“

“ _Ah, vale. Por supuesto._ ”

 _“¡John!_ ”

Thomas is lost, only picking up something that sounded like ‘love.’“

“ _Sólo digo que tienes el hábito de enamorarte de alguien que es vago e inteligente y te antagoniza._ ”

Thomas catches the word ‘intelligent.’“

_“Mentira. Dame un ejemplo.”“_

“ _Angelica._ ”

_“Falso. Estaba con Eliza.”“_

_“Porque Angelica no te tocaría, pero Eliza estaba interesada.”_

_They have to be talking about Angelica Schuyler_ , Thomas thinks. _But who’s Eliza_?“

“ _Otro ejemplo._ ”“

“ _Samu-_ ”

Hamilton swats John on the shoulder and shrieks: _“Estaba borracho cuando dije eso! No puedes echármelo en cara.”_

“ _Las palabras de un hombre borracho son los pensamientos de un hombre sobrio, Alex._ ”“

“ _Era un idiota_ ,” Hamilton grumbles. Laurens laughs.

" _Es por eso que dejaste de llorar después de el._   _Pero esso fue lo que pasó con Adams, y Lee y Knox y…”_

 _“Cállate,”_ Hamilton spits.

_“Cuando vas a admitir que te enamoraste con un_ _T-”“_

_“Vete a la mierda, John. He terminado de hablar contigo. Adiós. Cáete en una alcantarilla y muere"_ Hamilton whirls around and stops in his tracks. Laurens just laughs at him standing a few paces ahead. When Thomas and James reach them, Hamilton latches onto Thomas and pulls him ahead of Laurens.

“Abigail Smith’ place is just up ahead,” he says, pulling Thomas along by his wrist. Thomas stares at the spot where Hamilton’s hand is closed over his wrist and he finds he can’t form words. He’s only focusing on the warmth on his arm. “...You don’t speak Spanish, do you?”

“Huh?” Thomas says, looking up. Hamilton glances back at him, looks down at where he’s holding Thomas’ wrist and lets go with a wince.

“Do you speak Spanish?” Hamilton asks again, looking determinedly ahead. Laurens snorts behind them.

“No,” Thomas says.

“I’m going to assume you meant the English ‘no,’” Hamilton says.

“What?”

“‘No’ is Spanish is just ‘no,’” Hamilton explains.

“Oh,” Thomas says. “I didn’t even know that so…”

“Good,” Hamilton says. His fists are clenched at his sides as he marches along. Thomas slows his steps to let Hamilton stay even with him. “How do you even know French?”

“Minored in it in college,” Thomas says. “Spent a year studying in Paris.”

“Why?”

“I...I want to work for Interpol one day.” Thomas drops his voice, though he doesn’t think anyone around them in the bustling crowd is even listening. He doesn’t know why he’s telling Hamilton this, he could have just lied. Hamilton pauses for a moment.

“That’s...actually kind of awesome,” Hamilton says. “Chasing down bad guys across the world.”

“Hence why I want to do it,” Thomas replies, a smile across his face.

“I could see you doing that. Running down a street in China after some sort of hacker or something. In this big ol’ trench coat and whispering to your team through a hidden radio. I bet you’d get all sorts of cool gadgets and--”

“Do you think Interpol is the CIA or something?” Thomas interrupts.

“Well, no.” Hamilton scans a building to their right, then keeps moving. “But what else would they do?”

Thomas thinks for a moment. “Probably not anything different than what I do now, just...across the world.”

“...that’s still pretty cool,” Hamilton says. “I always figured myself as more of an Army guy than a policeman or a spy.”

“Really?” Thomas asks. Hamilton’s a scrawny fellow, without much muscle or fat on his bones. It honestly doesn’t look like the man has ever had a decent meal in his life.

“Yeah. Wanted to join up, originally. Tried to enlist in high school, wasn’t a US citizen yet. Tried again after I got my green card, got to boot camp…” Hamilton trails. “Drill Sargent was an idiot. They said that if I couldn’t hold my tongue and respect my first commander, there was no place for me in the armed forces.”

Thomas can imagine a younger Hamilton trying to fight a hardened drill sergeant. It’s almost a funny scene, Hamilton being held back by another trainee, scrabbling to get free and yelling.

“I told them-” Hamilton is still talking, leading Thomas across a street “-that if they didn’t want people who spoke their minds against stupidity, then there really was no place for me in the armed forces. Anyway, I ended up trying to appeal the decision at a VA office here in New York, and that’s where I met the Boss.” Hamilton stops, looking up at an apartment building. “Here we go, Smith’ place. Apartment 304.”

Thomas almost wants to stop and ask Hamilton to explain, to keep telling his story, but James is already walking up to the door and pressing the call button.

“Thanks, boys,” Thomas says as James pushes the door open. Hamilton nods, and then Thomas turns and walks inside the brightly lit hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for google translate Spanish because I took two years of it in seventh/eighth grade but I don't remember shit. (I have the translations so if anyone wants those hit me up.)
> 
> As for the visualization bullshit Thomas makes Alex do, I think I saw it on Criminal Minds once and I don't really want to check if it's real, I doubt it is, but I wanted to use it for ~reasons~.
> 
> See you Saturday!


	16. Alexander 'Tomcat' Hamilton Puts On The Moves: Talking About Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reliable with the ladies? Yeah.
> 
> Reliable with the men? Not so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobic language, shitty parenting, internalized homophobia and all that fun stuff.

Abigail Smith is a kind, elderly woman with three cats and a large sewing machine. She offers Thomas and James tea and a place on her couch. Thomas sits awkwardly on the knitted throw as a large, graying calico circles on his lap and lies across his knees. Mrs. Smith shuffles around her tiny kitchen, pouring herself a small cup of tea.

“And what can I help you boys with today?” She asks, her voice creaky with age, but still strong.

“We were hoping you could tell us something about the whereabouts of Aaron Burr,” Thomas says. Mrs. Smith hums to herself, slippered feet scuffing the floor as she crosses to a well-loved armchair. James shifts in his seat, waiting for Mrs. Smith to take a seat. Thomas raises his hand and pets the cat on his lap. The creature hisses at him and Thomas jerks his hand away.

“Oh, don’t mind Nabby,” Mrs. Smith chuckles. “She’s an old thing, just like her momma.” Harriet the cat glares at Thomas before settling back down further into his lap. “Doesn’t like to be touched.”

“I noticed,” Thomas says. James clears his throat.

“Mrs. Smith, we have reason to believe that Mr. Burr may have stayed with you last night. Is that true?”

Mrs. Smith peers at James over her glasses. “Aaron is such a sweet boy, Agent Madison. So very kind. Sometimes, he brings me tea and gossips with me. I can’t fathom why he would want to spend his afternoons with an old hag like me, but I don’t question it. Sometimes, that man is the only human contact I ever get.”

“That’s very nice, Mrs. Smith-” Thomas starts.

“Abigail, please.”

“Okay, Abigail. It's very nice that Mr. Burr-”

“Aaron.”

“ _Aaron_ spends his time with you, but you didn't answer my question,” Thomas says. Nabby shifts on his lap and he forces himself to relax. Mrs. Smith blinks, settling back down into her chair and folding her hands on her lap.

“What was the question, again?” She asks in a rickety voice that's starting to grate on Thomas’ ears.

“Did Aaron sleep here last night?” James asks. Mrs. Smith tilts her head curiously.

“Aaron? Aaron who?”

Thomas sighs. “Alright, we’re done here. Thank you Abigail.” He stands, and Nabby falls off his lap in an ungraceful lump. The cat screeches and writhes on the ground.

“That's Mrs. Smith to you boy,” she says. Nabby scrambles to her feet and takes off like a rocket to Mrs. Smith’ side. She leans forward in her upholstery chair and pets Nabby on the head. “There, there little John. The nice man didn't mean to hurt you, did you...what's your name again son?”

But Thomas is already halfway to the apartment door, James trailing behind. “Thank you for your time Mrs. Smith, we’ll be on our way.”

“But you just arrived! Sit, have tea with me!” She says. But James shakes his heads, says their goodbyes and follows Thomas out the door.

“Well, that was a bust,” Thomas says, practically stomping down the staircase. James walks dutifully behind. “Just a damn senile old lady and her damn cats.” Thomas tries to pat the cat fur from his pants as best he can.

“Why would Hamilton send us to an aging old woman?” James asks.

“To laugh at us,” Thomas replies. “I bet him and Laurens are laughing their asses off at us right now.”

Thomas comes out of the apartment building, letting James slip out and the door slam behind them. Hamilton and Laurens are sitting on the curb.

“...I _know_ John. So shut up about it,” Hamilton says. John goes to reply but the sound of the door shutting alerts the two to his and James’ presence. Their heads whip around, and Hamilton’s face is bright red.

“What the hell was that?” Thomas asks, expecting the two men to break out into laughter. Instead, both of them simply look confused.

“What do you mean?” Laurens asks.

“You think wasting our time with a senile old codger is funny?” Thomas looks at them expectantly. Laurens and Hamilton share a look of bewilderment.

“Mrs. Smith isn't senile, far from it actually,” Hamilton says, slowly. “She’s one of the brightest women I’ve ever met.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?” Thomas asks.

“It couldn’t have been a long time ago,” John muses. “No more than a month.” Hamilton stands up suddenly from the curb and hits Mrs. Smith’ buzzer repeatedly. He gets buzzed in and he disappears into the building. Thomas stares at the door for a moment.

“Should one of us follow?” James asks. Laurens shakes his head.

“Alex can handle it,” he says. Laurens scratches the back of his head and peers at Thomas. They stand in silence, Thomas pretending he doesn’t notice Laurens examining him. There’s a curious glint in Laurens’ eyes, one reminiscent of the first time Thomas had met him, just outside _The Fighting Frenchman_. James takes out his phone and starts typing. Thomas fidgets, looking up Mrs. Smith’ apartment building and feeling all sorts of uncomfortable under Laurens’ gaze. Laurens hums to himself, and Thomas can’t take it anymore. He whips his head around to see Laurens holding his chin and smiling at him.

“Can I help you?” Thomas asks, ice in his voice

“Just admiring the view,” Laurens says, just short of flirtatiously. There's a hint of southern in Laurens’ voice that Thomas has never really noticed before but now, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Thomas recoils, his stomach churning. He hides the flash of fear with a sneer of disgust. Laruens rolls his eyes. “Lighten up, man. I’m giving you a compliment.”

“I don’t want a compliment from _you_ ,” Thomas spits. James looks up from his phone in shock and Laurens’ smile falls at Thomas’ harsh words. Thomas’ heart is pounding in his chest and he's not sure why he's reacting like this. He’s fine. He’s okay. Laurens is gay. This is New York.

“You got a problem with me?” Laurens says, the challenge evident in his words. Now that he’s serious, the southern drawl is more pronounced.

“Maybe I do.” Thomas grits his jaw. James’ hand is on his elbow in a flash and he's squeezing tight. James is here. Thomas is safe. This isn't Virginia, this is NYC. Laurens rises from his place on the stoop, eyes lighting up in anger.

“You wanna go? Huh?” Laurens takes a threatening step forward. Thomas squares his shoulders. He's no pussy. Laurens doesn't know. Laurens can fight him, Thomas will fight back.

James is holding onto Thomas' arm now, one hand intertwining with Thomas’ and squeezing. “Thomas,” he hisses. “Stop.”

“You don't scare me, Mr. Cop Man. I'll take you down like I've taken every other homophobic piece of shit down,” Laurens is practically on top of them now. Laurens is shorter than him, but in Thomas’ mind, Laurens looms over him like his father used to. Thomas swallows, clenches his fists and gets ready to defend himself. His breathing turns rapid, his mind racing in a thousand different places at once and he can't focus on Laurens, can't defend himself, can’t fight, can’t run can’t-

Can’t say it. Can’t defend himself. He has to deny it. He has to lie. Laurens can’t know. No one can know. He’ll take this beating, better than what would happen if Laurens knew.

“I’m not...I’m not a _fa-_ ” Thomas stutters.

James throws himself between them. “Call down, the two of you. Laurens, step back.” When Laurens doesn’t move, James tries again with more force. “John Laurens take three steps back right now. There’s been a misunderstanding.” James puts a hand on Laurens’ chest and must push slightly because Laurens takes a step back, still glaring at Thomas. Thomas can’t look away from the rage in his face, not even as James pulls him aside and grabs on to Thomas’ shoulders.

“Thomas, what’s gotten into you?” He asks, though the real question is just beneath. Thomas knows it. _Why aren’t you fighting, you damn fairy? Why didn’t you throw a punch?_ His father’s words echo in his head. James grips his shoulders tighter. “Breathe, Thomas. Breathe, come on.”

Breathe? He is breathing, quickly in fact. Erratically. It catches and hitches as Thomas finally drags his eyes to James. James starts counting, and Thomas tries to pull his scattered thoughts to the numbers. Tries to slow his breaths to the beat James is giving him. But his father’s voice, thick with both hatred and his accent is the only thing Thomas can hear.

“One.”

_Man up, Thomas, and stop dressing like a girl._

“Two.”

_What the hell is wrong with you?_

“Three.”

_No son of mine is a faggot piece of-_

“Four.”

No.

“Five.”

Thomas realizes he’s shaking. He mouths the next number with James, trying to get his voice to work.

“Six.”

_“I’m not your son, then.”_

“Seven.”

James’ hands are warm against his shoulders. Thomas focuses on that.

“Eight.”

Thomas lets out his first full breath.

“Nine.”

Thomas finds James’ eyes for the first time and his brain settles. He grabs onto James arms and breathes deeply.

“Ten,” he says. James smiles and nods.

“Ten. Welcome back, Thomas,” James says. Thomas swallows and looks around. He’s on the New York City sidewalk he always on. Laurens is looking at him with concern, the anger either gone or gone dormant. Thomas looks down at himself, shame bubbling under his skin. He catches sight of his jacket, pink and bright and _feminine_. He shrugs out of James’ grasp and almost tears the fabric of the jacket as he rips it off. He can’t wear it. Not now. He feels too _out_ in it. He throws it at James.

“Thomas?” James asks, holding the jacket. How ironic that it’s _that_ jacket. It’s an old one; a gift James had given Thomas back when-

_“I can’t, James. I--” Thomas stared down at the pink jacket in is hands._

_“You said you liked it at the store,” James says._

_“Yeah, but… I can’t_ wear _it. Not around other people.” Thomas tries to shove it at James, holding the gift as far from his body as he can._

_“Yes you can, Thomas.”_

_“But-”_

_“No buts. Put it on, just once.”_ _James pushes the jacket back to Thomas, waiting patiently as Thomas stares at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he slides one arm on, then the other. He shuts his eyes, screwing them closed tightly the entire time, settling it around his torso by touch alone. “There, see? You’re wearing it around me.”_

_“Yeah, but...you’re different. You...know.”_

_“I’m no different than anyone you’ll see around campus, Thomas. No one is going to say anything. If they do, it’ll be compliments. Come, see.” Thomas feels James’ hand wrap around his own, then he’s pulled gently to his feet and led out of their dorm. As they travel down the hall, Thomas still doesn’t open his eyes. He can’t look. This way, he can still pretend that no one can see him._

_James pulls him into the bathroom, Thomas can tell because he’s stepping on tile now. Thomas lets James move him around until James is satisfied. “Open your eyes, Thomas. Please.”_

_Thomas takes a deep breath. He forces his eyes open and finds himself standing in front of a mirror. The jacket looks as good on him now as it did in the secrecy of the mall dressing room. The color contrasts against his dark skin and Thomas can’t help but love how it looks._

_He smiles at himself in the mirror and James smiles too._

_“See, you look great.” James pats Thomas on the arm. “And you’re no less a man for that fact.”_

_For the first time, Thomas believes James._

“James, it’s too much. I can’t,” Thomas says.

“Yes, yes you can,” James says, pressing the jacket back into Thomas’ hands. “What happened just now to make you think that?”

“I…” Thomas swallows, his throat dry and scratchy. “I heard _him_. In my head. Told me I wasn’t a man.”

“That’s not true and you know it Thomas.”

“I know, James. But-”

“But what?”

_But what?_ Thomas looks at the ball of fabric in his hands. He clenches his jaw. _But what exactly_. He slides the jacket back on quickly, smoothing out the creases with his hands. When it’s all back and orderly, he looks up to find James smiling at him.

“I am a man, no matter how I look,” Thomas says, “or who I want to kiss.”

“Good.” James pats Thomas on the shoulder. “Now, what made you flashback?”

“...Laurens’ accent.” Thomas says, after a moment of thought. “Definitely the accent.”

James nods. “Okay. We know now.”

“We know now,” Thomas says. He takes James’ hand and squeezes. _It’s okay_ , _I can deal with an accent_ , Thomas thinks. He looks up at Laurens again, who has stepped away and turned his back. Thomas grits his teeth, walks up behind the gangster and taps him on the shoulder. When Laurens looks at him, Thomas says: “Sorry ‘bout that. I don’t have a problem with you, Laurens.”

Laurens eyes Thomas for a moment, then nods. “A’ight.” Maybe Laurens heard something about his accent, but the southern in his voice is all but squashed now. “You got a problem with somebody, and it’s not my business, but you freaked me out there. Thought I was gonna have to deck you.”

“Thought you were going to ‘deck’ me,” Thomas says with a smile. Laurens breaks out into a grin as well, a blinding one that shines between freckled skin.

“I woulda done it. I still have to get you back, Batman,” Laurens says. Thomas snorts.

“Any day, Joker.”

Laurens laughs, clapping Thomas on the back. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re not horrible.”

“I beg to differ,” Hamilton breaks in, finally emerging from the apartment building. Thomas rolls his eyes. He waves a piece of paper in one hand. “Got some information you want.”

“What? How?” Thomas asks, snatching the paper from Hamilton. It’s an address, one for a motel.

“Mrs. Smith gave it to me, duh.” Hamilton says.

“But-”

“You two introduced yourselves as cops, dumbasses. There was no way she was going to help you. I told you, smart old lady,” Hamilton says, smirking. Thomas scowls. He shoves the paper at James, who starts plugging the address into his phone. “Once I explained the situation, she willingly told me everything I wanted to know. If you had just gone up there as Will Clark and Matt Lewis, you probably wouldn’t have needed me.”

“Great to know,” Thomas drawls.

“But you might be out of luck. When Burr was here, he told her to call him at that motel if anyone came looking for him. She was getting off the phone when I got to her apartment.

“I have directions. It’s not far,” James says, holding out his phone.

“Great!” Hamilton says. He glances at the map and starts heading down the street in the right direction.

“Excuse me, where are you going?” Thomas asks.

“To help you find Burr,” Hamilton replies. Thomas looks at James in disbelief.

“Oh no you’re not.” Thomas catches up to Hamilton in three easy strides and stops him with a hand to his shoulder. “You are not coming with us.”

“Like hell I’m not,” Hamilton says.

“Hamilton-”

“You wouldn’t have gotten this far without me, Jefferson.”

Thomas bites down on a scathing remark. He’s still on edge from earlier and blowing up at Hamilton won’t help him. “You _can’t_ come with us. It’s not proper protocol.”

“That wasn’t a problem up until now,” Hamilton says. “Now, I’m going to that motel and you can either come with me or try and stop me.” Hamilton shrugs off Thomas’ hand and starts down the street again. Thomas sighs, sends a prayer to whatever heavenly being is listening, and starts after him.

“Are you coming too, Laurens?” James asks.

“Sure, why not,” Laurens responds.

Thomas draws even with Hamilton, already planning out what to say. He can’t have two gangsters following him around on official business. It’s dangerous. The wrong person overhears the wrong thing and Thomas’ cover is blown. “Hamilton, look-”

“Who are you voting for?” Hamilton asks, suddenly. Thomas blinks, his entire argument for Hamilton staying behind forgotten.

“That’s a personal question,” Thomas says.

“Okay, but who are you voting for?” Hamilton asks again, more insistently this time. “Republican or Democrat?”

“Is this really the time for politics?” Thomas asks.

“It’s always the time for politics, Jefferson.”

“I don’t think that’s true-”

“Just answer the question. Republican or Democrat?”

“I don’t want to answer the question,” Thomas says. Hamilton looks at him, narrows his eyes and says:

“You vote Republican.”

Thomas sputters. “What makes you think that?”

“Everything about you,” Hamilton responds. “You haven’t dropped that accent, so I assume that’s real, which means you’re southern. You _smell_ like you come from money, and you’re already insufferable, so why not add your political preferences to the pile?”

Thomas starts, mouth gaped open. “I...I am not Republican.”

“Really?”

“Really, Hamilton. I’m black, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“There are black Republicans-”

“I have my reasons for not being a Republican. _Personal_ reasons,” he says to Hamilton’s questioning look. He grits his jaw, waiting for Hamilton to push. To his surprise, something flits across Hamilton’s face, and then he lights up and exclaims:

“So you’re Democrat!”

“No, oh god no,” Thomas says, indignantly. Hamilton’s grin falls.

“Then what…”

“I am a Libertarian,” Thomas says, proudly.

“...You’re third party?” Hamilton asks, incredulously. “ _You’re third_ _party_?”

“Why, yes, Hamilton. There are more than two options in our political system,” Thomas says. Hamilton gapes at him

“Holy shit, you’re serious. You’re actually a third party voter.” Hamilton starts laughing. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any stupider.” Thomas frowns. “Throwing away your vote. Thomas Jefferson, throwing away his vote-”

“I am not throwing away my vote.” Thomas protests, but Hamilton ignores him. He spins so he’s walking backwards.

“John! Did you hear that? _He’s a Libertarian!_ ”

“I heard, Alex,” Laurens says. But he’s eyeing Thomas, possibly replaying the argument in his head, trying to put the pieces together. Thomas looks away before Laurens can say anything, however, and interjects:

“I only vote Libertarian when my vote doesn’t matter or it’s a local election,” Thomas justifies. “I’d never vote Gary Johnson.”

Hamilton looks up at him again, the open, curious expression on his face striking an odd chord in Thomas. “So then, how do you vote in a presidential election?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Thomas says. He has the strange urge to reach out and flick Hamilton on the nose. Before he can stop himself, he does exactly that. Hamilton stiffens, and his hand flies to his nose. _Oh shit, it’s broken_ , Thomas remembers. He immediately feels guilty as Hamilton pokes and rubs his nose.

“Asshole,” Hamilton mutters, gently feeling his nose.

“Why aren’t you wearing your bandages?” Thomas asks, realizing that he hasn’t seen Hamilton in them for _days_ now.

“They were uncomfortable and weren’t helping anyway,” Hamilton says.

“Hamilton.”

“What? I don’t want to wear them.”

“You should!” Thomas exclaims.

“Don’t bother. He won’t even listen to me,” Laurens breaks in.

“Hamilton, you _need_ to protect your nose while it heals.”

“It’s fine.” Hamilton waves his free hand dismissively.

“No, it’s not,” Thomas protests. “You could really hurt it without proper treatment.” Thomas reaches out at catches Hamilton by the chin. They stop there, in the middle of the sidewalk as Thomas turns Hamilton’s head about, examining his nose. The swelling has gone down, but it’s still bruised, giving Hamilton a Rudolph the Purple Nosed Reindeer look. Thomas can see where it broke, the bump and kink in the cartilage is about halfway up. He straightens out Hamilton’s face to get a head-on look but just ends up making eye-contact instead. Hamilton’s eyes are wide, pupils small as he stares back at Thomas. Like this, Thomas can see the deep brown, just how dark and near mesmerizing Hamilton’s eyes are. They are inches apart, and Thomas can feel Hamilton’s breath on his face.

“Hey, look, we’re here!” Hamilton says quickly. He pulls his face from Thomas’ hand and points to the building behind Thomas. Thomas looks over his shoulder.

“No we’re not. That’s a laundromat.” Thomas turns back around. Hamilton laughs, looking anywhere but Thomas.

“Wow, you’re right. Look at that. That is certainly a laundromat and not a motel. Good job. I can see why you work for the FBI. Top-notch observational skills. Hey, John! Did you see this? We found a laundromat!”

“We certainly did, Alex,” Laurens says, laughter in his voice. Thomas looks between the two of them, bewildered. Hamilton surges forward and grabs Laurens by the wrist.

“Seeing as I cannot tell the difference between a motel and a laundromat, why don’t you walk with me to make sure I don’t make that mistake again John.” Hamilton pulls Laurens down the street, leaving Thomas and James behind.

“What...the fuck?” Thomas mutters. James simply looks up at him and shrugs.

“We should follow them,” James says, nodding in at Hamilton and Laurens’ backs. Laurens is cackling, leaning against Hamilton as they walk.

“Hey,” James says as they start to follow. “You okay? After earlier?”

“...yeah. I'm fine. Caught me off guard is all,” Thomas replies, gaze affixed to Hamilton’s back.

“You know, if there's anyone who would understand what you've been through, it would be Laurens.”

Thomas thinks for a second. “Yeah. He might. He’d be a member of the HDC in any case.”’

“If he went to college with us, you mean.”

“Or worked with us. Steuben’s an honorary member.”

James cocked an eyebrow. “Is he now?”

Thomas laughs. “Yeah. Got the club to send him a letter and everything. It's hanging on his office wall next to his dishonorable discharge paper.”

James just chuckles. He nods at Hamilton and Laurens’ figures ahead of them. “They're getting too far ahead of us. We need to catch up.”

\-------------

They reach the motel without further incident. The woman inside acquiesces to Thomas’ badge and his requests. She tells them that Burr arrived sometime early this morning, around 8:00 or so. He got a key and a first-aid kit from the front desk and disappeared into his room. About half an hour ago, Burr got a call at the front desk. He talked for barely a minute, then he and his lady friend turned in their keys and left. They just missed him by maybe fifteen minutes.

“Lady friend?” Thomas asks. James looks up from where he’s taking notes on a notepad as the woman nods.

“Yeah. The woman he was staying with.”

“He was staying with a woman?”

The woman nods again, but then hesitates, frowning slightly. “At least, I think so. She showed up around 2:50 in the morning, checked in under his name. I remember because she woke me up,” she says. “Didn’t see her again until she left.”

“Did you get her name?” James asks. The woman shakes her head.

“No, but I caught the kid’s name.”

“The kid? She had a child with her?” James asks. Thomas looks at his partner in surprise. The woman looks nonplussed, however.

“Yeah. Just a little thing, couldn’t have been more than two months old. Teddy was her name.”

“Do you think you could describe her?” Thomas asks.

“The kid or the woman?”

“The woman.”

The woman thinks, tilts her head and says: “She was ‘bout my height. Black. Thick dreadlocks. She had this ring of bruises around her neck.”

Thomas is struck with a memory. _A young woman limping up the staircase to Burr’s apartment with thick dreadlocks and bruises._ His eyes widen, and he goes to say something to James, but his partner is looking at the motel manager with concern.

“Two people show up together, obviously injured, with a baby and you don’t say anything? Don’t offer them help or call the cops?”

The woman shrugs. “Wasn’t my business.”

James grits his jaw and Thomas pulls him aside quickly, thanking the woman. “James, do you think this mystery woman is the same one we saw visiting Burr?” He asks. James thinks for a second, then his eyes light up.

“Could be,” James says. “We could get a sketch artist down here.”

Thomas nods, then gets a better idea. He turns back to the woman. “Excuse me Miss, but do you have security cameras on the premises?”

“Just one, there.” The woman points behind her to the wall above the check-in desk. A cctv camera blinks a little red light at them. “I could pull footage, if you’d like.”

\----------

Thomas leaves the motel with the best picture of the woman he could get from the grainy security tape. It’s not great, but she’s almost looking dead into the camera. From the blurry image, Thomas can tell that the woman _is_ the one from Burr’s apartment. As he exits the building, he’s hoping Hamilton and Laurens have left, but no such luck. They’re milling about the front sidewalk, arguing in Spanish. Thomas sighs.

“And you two are still here because…?” He asks. They both roll their eyes at him.

“Where to next on this goose-chase?” Laurens asks.

“I don’t know. Burr didn’t say anything about where he was going.” Thomas glances at his watch. It’s getting late. They should stop for dinner soon. “All we got was…” Thomas trails, realizing he was about to bring the two gangsters even further into the loop.

“Was?” Hamilton prompts. Thomas looks at him, and knows in that moment Hamilton will never let it go.

“Burr met up with a woman. _This_ woman-” Thomas holds out the picture for Hamilton and Laurens to see. “-and the newborn kid with her. Do either of you happen to know this woman?”

Hamilton and Laurens examine the picture, look at each other for a moment, and Laurens shrugs. “No, I...I don’t know her.” The taller man says. Hamilton shakes his head.

“Are you sure?” Thomas asks. Laurens peers down at the photo again, and starts to shake his head. Then he stops, grabs the picture from Thomas and pulls it really close to his face.

“Alex, do you see it?” He asks, holding the photo out. “On her collarbone.”

Hamilton takes the photo and examines it, eyes flicking back and forth quickly. Then, he gasps. “A crown.”

“Yeah,” Laurens nods.

“What?” Thomas asks. “A crown?”

Hamilton turns the picture around and points to the woman’s chest where her shirt has slid down her shoulder. “There. See it?” Thomas looks closer. The picture is blurry, yes, but there, almost unrecognizable, is a little crown tattooed into the woman’s skin.

“Yeah, but what does it mean?” Thomas asks. Laurens glances at Hamilton before he says:

“That woman belongs to the Redcoats.” Laurens scowls. “The crown is their... _brand_.”

“‘Belongs’ to the Redcoats?” Thomas asks. Hamilton nods.

“She...she’s one of their working girls.”

“A prostitute,” Thomas clarifies. Both men wince, but nod their heads. He calls Ben, gets confirmation that a woman with a child had entered Burr’s building late last night, and had left about fifteen minutes after Burr had. Thomas looks down at the picture again. Burr’s on the run from the Redcoats, and he takes one of their prostitutes and a child with him? It doesn’t make sense. Thomas bites his lip.

_“Burr stole something from me,”_ King’s voice echoes in Thomas’ head. His eyes widen and his breath hitches. He scans the photo quickly. He sees the woman, the crown, the kid, and _everything_ falls into place.

“ _James!_ ’ He calls, running into the motel where James still was. He drags James away from the motel guest he was interviewing. “James, I figured it out. I figured out what Burr stole from the Redcoats.” Thomas shows him the crown on the woman’s collarbone and explains what Laurens and Hamilton told him. “It’s _her_ , James. Burr stole _her_.”

“But why?” James asks, eyes flicking from Thomas to the picture quickly. “Burr has always been neutral, why throw it all away for one woman?”

“The _kid_ , James. The kid! It’s gotta be the kid.”

“What are you saying Thomas?”

“I think Burr’s a father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peep that Thomas backstory.
> 
> SHOUTOUTS TO:  
> Sylphie for commenting _every damn week_. I mean holy shit I love you.
> 
> Everyone who helped out with the Spanish last week! Hugs for all of you! There's not going to be a giant block of Spanish ever again, but little comments here and there.
> 
> Anyone who guessed the Theodosia plot twist y'all are on _top_ of this.
> 
> Story Notes:
> 
> Something that makes me laugh every time I see it in fics is "Thomas Jefferson is a Republican but generally has democratic social values like pro-LGBT+ but he's totally Republican." I'm like..... don't you mean Libertarian? Like, all the republican economic values with all the democratic social values. Mr. 'get your governmental hands off my plantation' would _totally_ be a Libertarian fite me.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Remember how I said I didn't have a place for Abigail Adams? FUCKIN SIKE I FOUND ONE. My girl Abigail was born Abigail Smith. 'Nabby' is the nickname given to her only daughter that lived past the age of three, Abigail Smith Adams. (Yeah, the Hamiltons weren't the only ones uncreative with names.) 'John,' of course, refers to her eldest son John Quincy Adams, future president of the United States. My Abigail isn't married to national embarrassment John Adams here though because she deserves better. Also she's not senile she's just smart.


	17. Peanut Butter And Banana Makes Everything Better, Even When You're In The Process Of Bleeding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Hamilton fumble around in the dark for a bit and Abigal Smith returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated: Prostitution mention, Kidnapping mention.

“A father,” Hamilton repeats. Thomas nods quickly, talking into his phone. They’re almost running down the sidewalk now, the two of them weaving between people as Thomas talks.

“Yeah, freeze his assets, look for hospital records, recent payments to hotels, we gotta hind him. There’s a child involved now,” Thomas says.

“I hear you, I hear you,” Ben says. “But without this woman’s name I can’t get hospital records for the birth or-”

“There’s gotta be something you can do, Ben!” Thomas exclaims. “There’s an innocent woman and a child running from King and all they’ve got is Burr and we _need to help them!_ ”

“I’m trying my damned best, Thomas, please. Take a breath.”

Thomas gulps in air as he runs, Hamilton following at his heels. “Where are we going?” Hamilton asks.

“ _The Frenchman_ ,” Thomas replies, over his shoulder. “See if someone there knows _anything_ that can help.” Hamilton nods and speeds up so that he’s side-by-side with Thomas.

“Ben?” Thomas asks.

“Jesus, Thomas. I’m working as fast as possible.” Ben’s voice is slightly masked by the sounds of furious typing. “Okay, following Burr’s expenses over the last month...there’s nothing out of the ordinary...wait. _Waitwaitwaitwait_.”

“What, Ben?”

“There’s a charge from St. Nicholas Hospital. Two months ago Burr paid for _services rendered in childbirth and postnatal care._ ” Ben’s voice gets louder, he’s excited. “And before that! _Prenatal care,_ twice a month for...seven months. And! And! And! Every time Burr is billed for health services, he _also_ withdraws about $500 before that in cash. Oh my god how did I miss this?”

“Ben, keep digging. Find her name.” Thomas keeps running, Hamilton trying to keep up beside him.

“Right! To the right! It’s faster,” Hamilton says, pulling Thomas across an intersection. They dash across the street, pushing through the crowd of pedestrians ahead of them.

“I’m going through birth records, hold on. Lots of kids are born each day in St. Nicholas apparently!”

“Would she even use a real name?” Hamilton asks. Thomas glances at him, and growls.

“Damn it, you’re right. She wouldn’t,” he mutters. “Ben, is Burr’s name attached to any of-”

“Don’t you think I already checked that!?”

“Then what are you even looking for!?” Thomas shouts back.

“ _The woman’s name,_ Thomas! If you would stop yelling at me, maybe I could find it faster!”

“Through here.” Hamilton pulls Thomas through an alley.

“How are you supposed to find it if Burr isn’t attached to the records?”

“ _I don’t know!_ ”

“Oh my god,” Hamilton says. As he pulls Thomas out of the alley, he yanks Thomas’ phone from his hand. “Can you access anything about the mother’s condition at the time of birth?”

“Hey!” Thomas protests, but Hamilton dances away from his attempt to reclaim his phone.

“No, that’s all doctor-patient confidentiality,” Ben says. Thomas can hear the communications expert’s voice through the phone. Hamilton is still moving, leading Thomas in the direction of _The Frenchman_.

“Are there any police reports connected to any of the births?”

“What? Why?” Ben’s voice is muffled through the phone and over the distance. “I doubt- Oh. There’s one.”

“What does it say?” Hamilton asks. Thomas reaches around and manages to pluck his phone from Hamilton. He presses it to his ear just as Ben starts talking again.

“The mother in question- oh my god. The nurse filed a police report because she noticed the _crown-shaped brand_ on the mother’s collarbone and knew what it meant. Neither the mother or father commented on it, and avoided any questions regarding _anything_ apparently. They were emergency emits from a local clinic, and were long gone before the nurse got a chance to actually make the report.”

“That’s her. It’s gotta be,” Thomas says. Hamilton gives a little whoop as he leads Thomas down the street.

“The names the parents gave were John and Betsy Ross.”

“What did they name the kid?”

“Theodosia.”

“Good job, Ben,” Thomas says, smiling.

“I live to serve.”

“Send copies of the report to everyone, get them up to speed.”

“Godspeed, Tommy boy.” Ben hangs up, and Thomas shoves his phone into his pocket. Hamilton breathes heavily from exertion beside him. Thomas keeps moving, despite the fact that his legs and lungs are starting to burn. His feet complain with every step, Thomas is not wearing the right shoes for this, but he keeps running.

“Jefferson, hold up!” Hamilton gasps, struggling to keep up with Thomas’ longer strides.

“No!” Thomas says over his shoulder. “Minutes are precious when you’re talking about children, _especially_ babies.”

“ _The Frenchman_ is literally right there!” Hamilton exclaims, throwing his hand out in front of him. “It’s won’t kill you to _jog_.”

“It could kill Theodosia,” Thomas says. He bites down on a harsher retort, glaring at Hamilton. The other man must see something on his face because he nods and picks up the pace. When they reach the darkened club, Thomas throws himself against the door, pulling it open as fast as he can.

The two men slip inside to almost pitch darkness. The door swings shut behind them and Thomas can’t see anything anymore. “Hello?” He calls out, standing stock still, willing his eyes to adjust faster. “Lafayette?”

“Everyone’s gone, off doing things we discussed in the meeting,” Hamilton says. Thomas can hear him moving about, fumbling for a light switch.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I thought maybe Laf was here, and they’re the person you want to talk to. They know everyone. If anyone can find Burr and his girls, it’s them.” Hamilton’s voice is moving in the darkness, following his footsteps. “Damnit, Laf. Where’s your damn flashlight?” Even though Hamilton is muttering, his voice almost booms in the silence. His footsteps are deafening.

Thomas pulls his phone out and switches on the light. Immediately, it illuminates the surrounding area. He swings it around until he finds Hamilton, hidden in shadow, rummaging through the back of the bar. He looks up when he notices the light, and it reflects off his eyes. They look absolutely _huge_ shining like they are now.

“Hey, bring that over here so I can see,” Hamilton says. “I gotta find Laf’s flashlight or something. So we can find our way to the light controls.” Thomas crosses the room obediently, and squats down next to Hamilton. He moves the light over the inside of the bar shelves, but only finds glasses and rags. Hamilton mutters another curse, and then is suddenly grabbing Thomas’ hand and dragging it around so the light goes where Hamilton wants it- in the nooks and crannies.

“Hamilton, let’s go. We’re wasting time,” Thomas says, struggling to pull his hand from Hamilton’s grip.

“No, no. We should stay here. Find the lights, start calling people in.” Hamilton stands, brushing against Thomas’ side and lets go of his hand. “Maybe it’s in their office?”

“Hamilton, we should leave. Reconnect with James and Laurens. Figure out a game plan.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to come here in the first place,” Hamilton retorts. “Shine the light over there, on the door.”

Thomas obliges, turning his phone light to the wooden door behind the bar. “And it was a mistake. We should go-” Thomas cuts off. “Hamilton,” he whispers, swallowing.

“What?” Hamilton whispers back.

“Look at the door.”

The door to Lafayette’s office has no doorknob. Which is odd, because there’s obviously a hole where a doorknob _should_ be. Thomas catches a glint of metal off to the side, and turns the light to find a dented-up doorknob on the ground. He turns the light back on the door, seeing the scratches and dents in the wood where somebody beat the knob off.

“That’s not right,” Hamilton breathes.

“No,” Thomas agrees. They stand there for a moment, both unsure of what to do. Then Hamilton grabs a bottle of liquor from the bar and reaches for the door. “Hamilton, no. We don’t know if anyone’s in there.”

“It’s pitch black inside, Jefferson,” Hamilton replies, fingers hooking into the hole in the door and pulling gently. It swings open toward them, revealing nothing but blackness. Thomas lights up the doorway, but he can’t see anything but a filing cabinet and a calendar on the wall. “On the count of three,” Hamilton whispers, “we go in. You hold the light steady.”

“What? No!”

“One.”

“Hamilton!”

“Two.”

“Jesus Christ, fine.”

“Three!”

Hamilton runs through the door, brandishing the bottle as a weapon. Thomas is right behind, using his phone to light up the office the best he can. There’s a glint of light on metal, and Thomas focuses on that. Just as he registers the object as a crowbar, it disappears, dropping through the air and hitting the ground with a _clang_. The person who had been holding the crowbar puts his hands up in surrender, and Thomas moves the light over their face.

“Please,” Aaron Burr says, “you have to help us.”

Burr holds his hands up in the air, palms open. He squints into the light, moving one hand slightly to help shield his eyes. Even in the dark, Thomas can tell Burr is all sorts of awful, one eye swollen almost shut and what looks to be a still fairly fresh blossom of bruises across his jawline.

“Burr?” Hamilton asks.

“Hamilton? Lafayette?” Burr asks, trying to peer through the light in his face. Thomas lowers the light slightly.

“Us?” He asks. Burr nods, and opens his mouth only to be interrupted by a baby cry. He whips his head around, and runs around Lafayette’s desk to the other side. Thomas follows, training the light on the ground to avoid tripping. When he reaches the other side, he slowly raises the light. There’s a young woman, _the_ woman, huddled in the leg space and cradling a baby. She gently shushes the child, bouncing and rocking it as best she can in the cramped space.

“Us,” Burr confirms before kneeling down beside the woman and joining in her ministrations. He pets the child on the head, gentle with the wisp of hair that’s just start thicken out. “Please,” he whispers, “you’re our last option.”

“Lemme call the boss,” Hamilton says, quietly. Thomas jumps, he hadn’t heard Hamilton come up beside him. He looks up at the smaller man. Hamilton tears his eyes away from the woman and child on the floor briefly to smile at Thomas. “We found them.”

Thomas just nods, and looks at little Theodosia, watching as her cries turn to giggles in her mother’s arms.

\-------------

The woman’s name is Theodosia too, Thomas comes to learn. Theodosia Prevost, to be exact. Her daughter is named after her, though Theodosia has come to call the girl Teddy.

Given Theodosia’s full name, Ben quickly pulls up a missing person’s report from Georgia bearing her name and photo. The report is a few years old, filed by a Sergeant Jacques Prevost. Apparently, Theodosia disappeared from a city street in Atlanta while her husband had been deployed overseas. There’s a note from an officer that states Theodosia has been labeled ‘legally dead,’ and Ben finds the obituary and notice for a memorial Mr. Prevost held. The picture that had been used for Theodosia’s missing persons and her memorial show a healthy, beautiful, smiling young woman. Her eyes twinkle even through the digital photo.

Looking at her now, Thomas realizes he finally knows the rest of Theodosia’s story. Kidnapped, trafficked and sold to men on the streets of New York City. Long gone is the woman from the picture, in her place is a frail, shaking, nearly broken thing that almost doesn’t look human she’s so gaunt and thin.

Theodosia holds her daughter to her chest, unwilling to let anyone but Burr touch her child. She doesn’t speak, even as Burr and Thomas help her out of the desk. Hamilton finds the light board and turns on the ceiling lights. Burr holds Theodosia to his side and helps her walk out of the office and to a booth in the bar proper. She walks on thin legs, ankles shaking in heels. When she sits, Burr slips off her shoes and holds her to his chest.

 _How on earth did this woman survive childbirth?_ Thomas wonders. She trembles even in Burr’s embrace and Thomas realizes she probably hasn’t eaten in at least a day. Without a word, Thomas slips into the kitchen, digs through Lafayette's walk-in fridge and finds some fresh fruit. He grabs knives, bread and some peanut butter too. Balancing it all as best he can, he walks back to the booth and dumps it all on the table.

“No one’s allergic to peanuts, are they?” He asks, quietly. Teddy is asleep again, and Thomas doesn’t want to wake her. Burr shakes his head and Thomas goes about fixing peanut-butter and banana sandwiches, tossing Burr the bag of grapes in the meanwhile.

“Thank you, Laf,” Burr says, pulling grapes off the bunch and offering them to Theodosia. Thomas frowns, focusing on spreading the peanut butter without tearing the bread.

“I’m not Lafayette,” he says. There’s a silence, then:

“Jefferson?” Burr asks. Thomas nods.

“Though, to most of the boys here I’m Will Clark.” Thomas holds out the first sandwich. Burr takes it and gives it to Theodosia, who nibbles on the crust. Burr glances at Hamilton, who is standing in the corner and talking on the phone in hushed tones.

“Does he know?” Burr asks. Thomas nods again.

“So does Washington, Laf, Laurens and Adams. Thanks for that, by the way.” Thomas slices through the rest of the banana he’s working on. “No one else. Madison is Matt Lewis, by the way.”

Burr nods, then turns back to the woman in his arms. “C’mon Theo, you need food,” he whispers, holding her hand and pushing the sandwich closer to her face. As they shift, Theodosia’s shirt slides and Thomas gets a look at the crown on her collarbone. It’s not a tattoo, Thomas realizes, it’s a burn scar. _It really is a brand_ , Thomas thinks. He finishes Burr’s sandwich and offers it to him. Burr takes it with a ‘thanks,’ and puts it in his lap, more focused on Theodosia.

“King is looking for you three,” Thomas says. Burr doesn’t even look up when he says:

“We know.”

“You had my card, you could have called me.” Thomas sits on the opposite side of the table, hands folded patiently in front of him. Burr just sighs and tears Theodosia’s sandwich into parts.

“Babe, please. Just a little more,” he says.

“When you eat,” Theodosia mutters, voice weak yet gentle. Burr sighs and takes a bite of his own sandwich. Theodosia reciprocates by biting into her food, then waiting for Burr to eat again.

“King contacted me, you should know,” Thomas starts. “He said that if I found you two, and let him take Mrs. Prevost back, he would set Burr up for Safe Harbors.” Burr looks up at Thomas, almost surprised.

“That bastard,” he mutters.

“Why did you tell us that?” Theodosia asks, eyes shining.

“So you know I won’t do it.” Thomas smiles gently. Teddy coos from Theodosia’s arms, and suddenly both of her parents’ attention is deadlocked onto her. Thomas considers asking how Teddy is doing, but he just finishes off the banana he had cut up. In the light, Burr looks a lot worse. His shirt is bloodstained and sticking to his skin. The bruises across his face trail down his neck and disappear under his shirt. His movements are stiff, and Thomas can almost see him wince every time he moves.

“John and Laf are on their way,” Hamilton says, coming up to the table. “The General and B.T. are coming too.”

“So all the lieutenants, then,” Thomas says. Hamilton nods, then turns his attention to Burr and Theodosia.

“You’re going to keep this secret, right?” Hamilton asks, motioning towards Thomas. Burr looks up momentarily.

“Yes, yes of course,” he says, and then he’s back to his daughter, letting her hold onto one of his fingers. Hamilton looks at Thomas, lips pressed together in concern. Thomas sighs and glances at his watch. He realizes, almost belatedly, that he should probably call James. He excuses himself from the table and pulls out his phone.

\-------------

In the end, it’s decided that the Sons of Liberty will harbor Burr, Theodosia and Teddy. It’s an unanimous vote amongst the lieutenants, Thomas included. It’s Hamilton’s idea to call up Abigail Smith and ask if she can take the trio in and keep silent. Once Mrs. Smith learns about the child, she agrees wholeheartedly.

When James shows up, he and Thomas take Burr, Theodosia and Teddy in the car to Mrs. Smith’s. The car ride is silent save Teddy’s babbling and quiet whispers between the two parents. Thomas catches a little of the conversation.

“Aaron, I-”

“I know, Theo. But please. We can trust them.”

“I hope so.”

James is also quiet, driving through the dark. Light from the street lights pass over them and it’s the only thing keeping Thomas awake at this point. He feels exhausted. Completely drained. Now that it’s quiet and Thomas can take a minute, his head has started screaming at him. There’s Tylenol in the glove compartment, but he doesn’t want to take any with James around. Not after their talk this morning.

 _Goddamn_ , _this morning feels like a century ago_ , Thomas thinks.

James pulls up to Mrs. Smith’s apartment building. Mrs. Smith is standing at the door, waiting for them. Thomas gets out of the car and helps usher Theodosia, Teddy and Burr inside. The elder Theo struggles up the stairs, eventually having to take her heels off and risk stepping on some nasty things. When Mrs. Smith lets them into her apartment, she immediately takes Theodosia’s hand and pulls her into a room saying something about a ‘guest bedroom.’ Burr watches them go, and Thomas can feel him itching to follow.

“They’ll be okay, Burr. They’re just in the other room, and Mrs. Smith is a good lady,” Thomas says.

“I know,” Burr says. “But…” Burr bites his lip, staring at the door his girl and daughter disappeared behind. They stand there in silence for a moment before Mrs. Smith reappears.

“The girls are asleep. The little one’s curled up with her momma and they were both out the second they hit the bed,” she says. Gone is the old age in her voice, and Mrs. Smith walks like a young woman, not hunched over like she had the last time Thomas had seen her.

At her words, Burr collapses. His knees give out and he falls against a countertop. Thomas catches him and when he looks at Burr he can see how exhausted the man is. There are bags under his eyes and suddenly Thomas remembers just how badly he had been beaten. The image of Burr’s bedroom with all the blood flashes before his eyes and Thomas pulls Burr to the couch.

Mrs. Smith is at Thomas’ side in a split second, already carrying medical supplies. She tries to tug Burr’s shirt off, but it sticks and can’t be moved. She’s forced to cut it open and when Thomas gets a look at the extent of Burr’s injuries, he feels sick. He has to turn away as Mrs. Smith starts to poke and prod, looking for the worst of the worst and Burr groans.

“I’d suggest a hospital, but…” Mrs. Smith trails, already working on disinfecting what she can reach.

“Not that bad,” Burr mutters.

“Yeah, yeah it is,” Thomas says. “How have you been on your feet all day?”

“Had too.”

Mrs. Smith tuts. “You should have told me about this last night, Aaron.”

“Didn’t have time.”

“Yes, yes you did,” Mrs. Smith admonishes. She reaches for bandages, thinks better of it and goes for tweezers instead. Despite her age, her hands don’t shake as she starts pulling thread and splinters of wood from Burr’s wounds.

“Just wanted sleep,” Burr says, wincing as Mrs. Smith digs around in what looks to Thomas like stab wounds.

“Is he going to be okay?” Thomas asks.

“If nothing gets infected, then yeah. Probably.” Mrs. Smith finally drops the tweezers and reaches for bandages with bloodied fingers. Now that she had to open most of the wounds, Burr is bleeding onto the couch. “I’ve got him, promise. Nothing’s going to happen to any of them, not while I’m kicking.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” Thomas says.

“Abigail.” Abigail lifts Burr off the back of the couch to wrap the bandage around his back.

“You keep changing what I’m supposed to call you,” Thomas chuckles.

“Yes, well. That’s before I knew you and Alexander were friends.”

Thomas sputters. “What?”

“You two are working together against King, right?”

“Yes, but- but we’re...we’re not friends.”

Abigail looks up at him with a questioning brow. “Aren’t you, love?”

“No, absolutely not. He’s insufferable,” Thomas says, though a small corner of his mind protests. He stomps down on that corner, refusing to listen to it. Abigail hums, almost like she doesn’t believe him,

“Well, call me Abigail anyway.” Abigail examines her work. “That’s all I can do for tonight. We’ll see what happens in the morning.” She lays Burr down on the couch throws a blanket over him and slides a pillow under his head.

“Theo-” Burr mutters.

“Hush, dear. They’re safe. I promise,” Abigail says, running her hand over Burr’s head. “Sleep, okay?” Just like that, Burr’s eyes shut and he’s gone, snoring slightly. Abigail stands, planting her hands on her hips.

“I’m going to let all three sleep as long as they wish,” she says. “I won’t wake them for anything, do you hear me?” She looks over her shoulder at Thomas. Thomas nods. “Good. I assume you can see yourself out.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you?” Thomas asks, but Abigail is shaking her head.

“Go, you have a job to do, Agent Jefferson. Find the bastards who would do this to such a young couple.”

\-----------

James is waiting in the car. Thomas slides into the passenger seat and sighs. Exhaustion pulls as his very bones as he practically collapses into the car.

“How was your day today, James?” Thomas asks.

“Peachy, you?” James replies, pulling out into evening traffic.

“Fan-flipping-tastic.”

There’s a beat of silence before James starts to laugh. Thomas follows and he feels the weight of the day’s events fall from his shoulders. He stares out the window and just laughs.

“Do you wanna go back to _The Frenchman_?” James asks. Thomas shakes his head.

“Just go back to the hotel. I’ll text Hamilton.” Thomas pulls out his phone.

**To: Short Stack**

**Took BT &T to Abigail’s. They’re safe. Going to my hotel.**

**From: Short Stack**

**good thanks**

**From: Short Stack**

**goodnight**

Thomas puts his phone back into his pocket. James starts to talk: “I just realized, I never told you how the meeting went.” Thomas hums, and James keeps going. “They all mostly talked about patching up the damages from Arnold's betrayal, but they did ask me a few questions about our ‘operation.’ I just sort of told them that you could answer things better than I could and kept my mouth shut.”

“Good, good.” Thomas sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. “I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

The rest of the ride is silent, Thomas just watching the buildings go by. When they get to the hotel, he rides the elevator up with James, keys into his room and collapses onto his bed. He manages to crawl his way under the sheets and shuts his eyes. Trying not to think of what tomorrow will bring, Thomas falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's in the clear!...For now.
> 
> Last week I realized I recognized a _lot_ of you guys, so shoutout to everyone else who keeps coming back don't think I don't notice!
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Abigail was originally going to be Betsy Ross but lol I decided I wanted my girl Abby instead.
> 
> Theodosia's story isn't uncommon or unbelievable. Where I live, we have prostitution and trafficking problems _by our high school_ it's that common. I've done a lot work with people who have similar stories to Theo. I once met a woman who was originally from Oregon but ended up on the east coast and the midwest after being drugged and kidnapped from a party. Please, _please_ know that human trafficking is not a 'third world problem.' It's so depressingly common here in the US. I can throw out facts and statistics that don't sound true but are. And victims are not people you should shame, arrest, or blame. Lots of them are either under threat of their lives, drugged up beyond belief, or in other such dire predicaments. On top of that, be very careful. Not every prostitution story is 'I got kidnapped,' too many are 'my parents/friend/significant other/other person in my life needed money.' Stay safe out there.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Betsy Ross was the woman who 'made' the original American flag. But that's not really the whole story but I don't want to get into that right now. Her husband's (technically second husband's) name was John.
> 
> Jacques Prevost was Theodosia's first husband, the British soldier that was out in Georgia and died.
> 
> See you Saturday and Happy Holidays!


	18. Lieutenant Battle 2: Electric Boogaloo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson v. Alexander Hamilton rematch! 
> 
> Maybe a change of venue and audience will give Hamilton the leg up he needs to defeat the once-victorious Jefferson.
> 
> Or will Thomas take the changes in stride and pull out another victory over the scrappy Hamilton?

“Why are we still meeting _here_?” Thomas asks, motioning around the diner. “Why not _The Frenchman_?”

“Because,” Hamilton says, digging into his club sandwich, “ _The Frenchman_ is for whole Leadership meetings and ‘holy-shit-everyone-drop-your-things-and-get-here’ emergency meetings. David’s Diner is for everything else.”

“It’s a pain to setup and teardown for meetings on busy days,” Laurens ads. Lafayette nods, mouth full of greasy french fries.

“It’s just a couple of chairs,” Thomas points out.

“Yes, but one must dig those chairs out of the back room,” Lafayette says. “And then put them back.”

“Oh, wow. _That’s_ a lot of work,” Thomas drawls. Hamilton glares.

“Look, we get food here. These two won’t feed anyone.” Hamilton jerks his head at his two friends across the booth.

“Ahh, so the truth comes out.” Thomas smirks. Hamilton flips him off, stuffing another bite into his mouth.

“Speaking of which, you-” Laurens points at Thomas “-owe me about fifteen bucks.”

“What? Why?”

“For the food you gave Burr and Theo two nights ago.”

“Seriously?” Thomas asks. Lafayette and Laurens both nod, solemnly. “It was just peanut butter and banana.”

“And a loaf of bread,” Laurens ads.

“And a whole bag of grapes.” Lafayette swirls another handful of fries in ketchup.

“We only had like a handful, tops,” Thomas protests. Lafayette shakes his head.

“Once something leaves the kitchen, you cannot take it back. Food safety, _mon ami_.”

Thomas stops, looking at the Frenchman in disbelief. “Why do _you_ care about food safety?”

“Waddya mean?” Laurens asks, sipping on a milkshake.

“Well, you’re already operating on the other side of the law. What’s a few health code violations to you?”

“Well, that’s exactly it, _monsieur_. We don’t want health department officials sticking their nose into our business.”

Thomas thinks for a moment, considering the implications of a health inspection gone wrong. “Fair enough,” he says, nodding. He glances around the diner. “So, is Tallmadge coming?”

“‘Course,” Hamilton says. “This is the weekly lieutenant's meeting. He better fucking show.”

“Does he know about me yet?” Thomas asks, glancing over Hamilton's head and out the window. James is leaning against the glass just beside their seats, his back to them. The Sons lieutenants had refused to let James into their meeting, and this was the compromise reached.

“Well, after what happened with Arnold-” Laurens stirs his shake “-we figured we should wait and clear it with you.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. He spots Tallmadge coming down the street, hands casually in his pockets.

“Besides, B.T. doesn’t have the best impression of cops,” Hamilton adds.

“Neither do any of you.” Thomas watches Tallmadge nod in greeting at James. Tallmadge disappears as he gets closer to the diner door.

“Yeah, but he’s worse,” Hamilton says, mouth full of sandwich. “He wouldn’t talk to ya’, just put a bullet in y-- Benny! Over here!” He waves at Tallmadge, who chuckles and takes a seat next to Lafayette. All three men squeeze together, Laurens trapped by the glass.

“C’mon man,” Laurens complains, “you couldn’t have sat on the other side?”

“Do you really think shoving Alex and Will together physically is a good idea? After _last_ time?” Tallmadge replies. Hamilton turns tomato red as Laurens and Lafayette burst into laughter. Thomas smirks and examines his nails, trying to keep his own blush from showing.

“ _Goddamnit,_ ” Hamilton mutters in French.

“Oh, Alex, it’s okay,” Laurens says, eyes glimmering with mischief. “ _Anyone_ would love it if someone that looks like Clark had his hands on them. You just happened to make a very loud noise.” Tallmadge snorts a laugh, Lafayette almost falling apart beside him.

“ _Merde_ , I nearly forgot about that,” Lafayette gasps.

“ _John Laurens I swear to god I will kill you_ ,” Hamilton threatens in low French.

“ _You’re never gonna live that down. I heard Green and Knox talking about it after the meeting.”_ John replies.

“ _Someone kill me_ ,” Hamilton groans. Thomas catches Tallmadge’s eye and the man smiles sympathetically at him.

“ _Bet if Clark-_ ” Laurens’ words are covered up as Tallmadge starts to speak.

“Don’t mind them, they do this all the time. I’ll nudge them in a bit to remind them that not _everyone_ speaks their damn language.”

“ _It was a reflex action! It meant nothing!_ ” Hamilton protests. Thomas smirks.

“ _Certainly sounded like it did_ ,” He says. Laurens snorts into his milkshake and Lafayette absolutely loses it. Hamilton looks absolutely mortified, dropping his head so it hits the table and looking out the window forlornly.

“Goddamnit,” Tallmadge says, rubbing his face with one hand. Thomas mouths an apology, then turns back to the other three.

“English, boys. Benny’s missing out over here.” Thomas jerks a thumb in Tallmadge’s direction. Tallmadge waves, smiling bitterly.

“Sorry, B.T.,” Laurens says, not sounding very sorry at all. Tallmadge rolls his eyes.

“At this rate, I’m actually going to have to learn French, aren’t I?”

“It could help,” Lafayette says, wiping away tears from his eyes. “Oh, _merde_ , Clark. Holy shit.”

“I bet Lewis wouldn’t mock me,” Hamilton mutters. “He’s officially my favorite. My new best friend.” James chooses that moment to glance over his shoulder at them. He spots Hamilton looking at him, pouting, and raises a single eyebrow. Hamilton picks up his head and shouts so James can hear him. “You like me, don’t you Lewis?”

James shrugs and turns around. Laurens breaks out into laughter again. Hamilton’s head falls back onto the table for a heartbeat, but then he shoot up straight.

“Guys! Look!” He points down the street behind Laurens, Lafayette and Tallmadge’s booth. Thomas cranes his head to see what Hamilton is looking at as the others turn around. Angelica Schuyler, along with two other women and a young man are walking down the street towards the diner. The other women, one in a blue coat and one in what looks like a bright yellow rain jacket, and the man are talking excitedly amongst themselves, with Angelica leading the way silently. As they pass the window, Hamilton knocks on the glass, and all four heads turn. Angelica smiles daintily, but the other three practically beam as Hamilton waves frantically at them. James nods as they pass, and they disappear.

“Well, look at that,” Laurens muses. “The Schuyler siblings and little Philip.” Hamilton turns so he’s kneeling, leaning backwards over the booth.

“He’s not so little anymore,” Lafayette points out. The diner door jingles as they enter, and Hamilton bounces in his seat.

“Alexander, calm down,” Angelica says. Hamilton does not calm down, and instead starts trying to climb over Thomas.

“Hey!” Thomas shoves Hamilton’s hand off his head, feeling Hamilton’s foot catch on his thigh as the shorter man scrambles out of the booth. “You could have asked me to move, asshole.” But Thomas goes ignored as Angelica and her group reach the booth. Almost instantly, Hamilton throws his arms around the woman in blue.

“Eliza, it’s been too long!” He says. Eliza laughs, pats him on the head and then returns the hug.

“You haven’t been eating, I see.” Eliza pats Alexander’s sides as he leans back to look at her.

“Who needs food?” Hamilton says. Eliza frowns.

“You do, Alexander,” she says, letting go of the man. Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“I think you’ve got the wrong man. Alexander Hamilton doesn’t need such trivial things as _food_ ,” the young man with her teases. Hamilton turns his attention to him, eyes lit up in joy.

“Philip, my little man,” he says, holding out his fist. Philip completes the fist-bump.

“What’s happening, pops?” He says, grinning. Hamilton pulls him into a hug.

“You got tall.” Hamilton looks up at Philip, who stands a few inches taller than Hamilton.

“Yeah I did, whatcha gonna do about it?” Philip challenges, but his tone is friendly.

“Them’s fightin words,” Hamilton says. “I taught you well.”

Thomas looks between the two embracing men in bewilderment. Philip doesn’t look like he could be any younger than sixteen, but Hamilton doesn’t look old enough to be a father. He looks twenty-five, max. An exhausted twenty-five, but twenty-five nonetheless. Before Thomas can ask, the other woman buts in.

“What am I, chopped liver?” She asks. Philip rolls his eyes and Hamilton pulls out of the hug.

“The finest chopped liver this side of the Mississippi,” Hamilton says. She makes and exaggerated frown and throws her fists up.

“I’ll fight you, Hamilton,” she says, hopping back and forth in a mock boxer’s stance. Hamilton grins and puts his fists up too.

“Anytime Peggy, let’s go.”

“And that’s enough of that.” Eliza steps between Hamilton and Peggy, drawing groans from the woman.

“C’mon Lizzie, let Pegs have zir fun,” Lafayette says.

“We’ve only been back for a _week_ ,” Eliza says, “ze can wait to stir up trouble again.” Eliza looks at Peggy with a look of warning, and Peggy drops her fighting stance.

“You kill two men and you never live it down,” she mutters, earning a hair ruffle from Philip. Thomas starts, looking at Peggy in shock. She’s short, just a little taller than Hamilton, and doesn’t look like she could take a punch.

“Is she serious?” Thomas mutters to Tallmadge. “Two men?”

“It’s _ze_ not _she_ , thank you very much,” Peggy breaks in, “And yes. I am serious.” Thomas sees Laurens stiffen, hears the sharp intake of breath he makes. Lafayette watches him carefully from over a soda. Everyone’s eyes are on him but Thomas is drowning in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” Thomas breathes, finally catching on. _Shit_. “I didn’t mean-”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Peggy reassures him. “I didn’t kill because of pronouns.”

“Good to know,” Thomas says, sinking down into his seat. He spots Laurens looking at him thoughtfully, and Lafayette is beaming in his direction.

“In that case, I prefer they/them,” Lafayette says. Thomas’ eyes widen.

“Oh my god, I... _fuck_ , sorry.” Thomas winces. “Should have asked.”

“No, no _mon ami_. You’re from the south, I assumed…” Lafayette trails. Thomas swallows thickly. He catches Laurens’ eye, who is still looking at Thomas like he can’t put the puzzle together. Thomas bites his lip.

“Fair assumption, in my own experience,” Thomas mutters. Lafayette gasps.

“Do _you_ not use male pronouns?” Lafayette asks quickly. Thomas starts.

“Yes! No! I--I do. Male.”

“Are you okay?” Laurens asks. Thomas glances at him quickly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.” Thomas fidgets with his shirt, feeling the silken, sparkling fabric slide between his fingers. Laurens is still looking at him suspiciously, and starts to speak again, but Thomas rushes to speak first.

“Anyway, it’s good to meet you...Peggy? Right?” Thomas holds his hand out to zir, who take is and pumps it enthusiastically.

“You must be Will,” ze says. Thomas smiles.

“I see my name precedes me.” Thomas looks at the others standing at the head of the table. Angelica is watching everything from where she stands against Tallmadge’s booth.

“Your reputation as an asshole does too,” Hamilton adds.

“It does not,” Eliza says, taking Thomas’ hand once her sibling lets go. “Elizabeth Schuyler. Angelica told me you managed to embarrass Alex in front of Leadership?” Eliza’s handshake is soft without being weak. Thomas can see that she’s beautiful with doe eyes and pronounced cheeks.

“That was me, indeed.” Thomas lifts her hand to his mouth and plants a little kiss there. Eliza _giggles_. Hamilton glares at him, fists clenched at his sides. Thomas glances between the two of them, watching the way Hamilton grabs onto her arm when Thomas lets go of her hand.

 _Hamilton’s got a girl, has he?_ Thomas thinks to himself. There’s a pang somewhere in his stomach at the thought, but Thomas forgets about it as Philip shakes his hand as well. His handshake is crushing, and Thomas swears he can feel his hand bones shift under it.

“To what do we owe this visit?” Lafayette asks.

“I need to ask you all something,” Angelica says. She puts her hands on the table so that she’s leaning down to be eye-level with Thomas and the others that are sitting. Eliza, Peggy and Philip all look at one another and sigh. “Something happened two days ago involving Aaron Burr and Abigail Smith and I want to know what it was.”

“What makes you think we’ll tell you?” Tallmadge asks. “Who says we even know?”

“One, everything that happened went down in _my_ territory. I should know. Two, you guys know. _Everyone_ knows there was an emergency lieutenant meeting two days ago. What else would it be about?”

“You run Morningside Heights?” Thomas asks.

“Part of it, and the areas just east and north of it. Those have _always_ been Schuyler streets,” Angelica says. “So, what happened?”

Thomas looks at Laurens, Lafayette and Tallmadge. “ _Do any of them speak French?_ ” He asks in French. He gets nothing but head-shakes, so he continues: “ _What do we tell her?_ ” Lafayette leans over to Tallmadge and interprets in a hushed tone.

“ _I wouldn’t lie to Angelica Schuyler if my life depended on it_ ,” Laurens replies.

“ _Well, she can’t know about me or Lewis,_ ” Thomas insists. Lafayette stutters in his translation and makes something up.

“ _Of course not_ ,” Hamilton says. “ _We just...omit that part._ ” Angelica watches the conversation, eyes flicking between whoever’s speaking. Tallmadge rolls his eyes.

“You now know my frustration,” he says, leaning into Lafayette to hear the translation better.

“ _How do we explain why King approached me?_ ”

“Um, _say that-_ ”

Angelica interrupts Laurens. “Alright, enough discussion. What happened with Burr?” Thomas starts, blinking.

“Burr...helped one of King’s working girls run away,” Lafayette says. “He got beaten up, but everyone escaped. King approached Clark and offered him...uh…”

“Cash,” Thomas says, “cash, business and safety if I found them and turned them in.”

“And?” Angelica prompts. Hamilton sighs.

“Clark called me, let me know what was going on. We found Burr, the girl and their daughter and took them someplace safe.”

“Someplace safe,” Angelica mutters. “Abigail’s?” Laurens nods. Suddenly, Thomas remembers they’re in public and snaps his head around to scan the diner. He hears Tallmadge chuckle.

“Calm down, there’s no one here that would listen in,” he says. Thomas looks at him, confusion plastered across his face. “The Sons own this diner, remember? It’s safe here.”

Thomas blinks, understanding beginning to dawn. _No wonder everyone’s so relaxed here_ , he thinks. “You _own_ the diner?”

Lafayette nods, the winces. “We don’t _own_ own David’s, we just own the surrounding area. David knows who’s in charge around here.”

“You didn’t know that?” Laurens asks. Thomas shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve been paying for food here.”

“Do I not have too?” Thomas asks, doing the mental calculations of just how much he’s spent here. “I’ve been paying for _nothing_?”

Hamilton groans. “Thanks, John. I was taking that money for myself.” Thomas glares at the shorter man.

“You fucking what?” Thomas starts to rise from his seat.

“Back to Burr,” Angelica butts in. “You said something about a ‘daughter?’”

“Yeah, Burr and the girl have a kid. Hamilton, how much money have you gotten from me?” Thomas slides out of the booth. Hamilton smirks.

“Enough to buy myself a new coat, thank you very much.”

“And you all thought _Abigail Smith’s apartment_ was the safest place to put them.”

“Yep,” Laurens says, watching Thomas advance on Hamilton.

“I want that money back, _now_ ,” Thomas demands.

Hamilton winces, but it’s over-exaggerated. “Too late. Already spent it.”

“ _Hamilton_!” Thomas snaps. “I billed--” he stops, realizing what he was about to say, and switches to French. “ _I billed my agency for that money. I could get in serious trouble for this!_ ”

“ _That sounds like a you problem,_ ” Hamilton says. Thomas stops, his vision turning red.

“ _I’m going to kill you,_ ” he says. Before anyone can react, he repeats in English: “I’m going to kill you!” Thomas lunges for Hamilton, but the infuriating man dances backwards.

“Whoops, gotta bounce,” he says, turning to make a run for it. He runs directly into Philip, however, and the younger man stops Hamilton from getting any further. Thomas smiles and reaches for Hamilton, only to have his hand snatched back and his whole body pulled backwards.

“Oh no you don’t,” Peggy says, easily holding Thomas back from Hamilton. Philip grabs a hold of Hamilton before he takes off and they’re both left staring at each other.

“Are they normally like this around each other?” Eliza asks, gaze flicking back and forth between them. Laurens nods.

“Unfortunately,” Lafayette mutters.

“Let me go, Peggy,” Thomas says.

“Nuh uh,” Ze replies, tightening zir hold on him. Thomas scowls. Hamilton sticks his tongue out at him and Thomas’ gut flips in rage.

“ _Si quieres meterte en los pantalones no es la forma de hacerlo._ ” Laurens says. Hamilton whips his head to glare at John, a blush rising to his cheeks. Laurens shrugs. “I’m not wrong.”

“Shut _up_ , John!” Hamilton shouts.

“If everyone’s done trying to kill each other,” Angelica breaks in, sounding equal parts bored and angry, “I want to talk about where Burr and his family should be kept.”

“They’re fine where they are,” Hamilton says. Thomas scoffs.

“Because one old lady is going to stop angry Redcoats.”

“You seemed perfectly okay with the idea when you took them over there,” Hamilton protests.

“Because I thought it would be a temporary thing,” Thomas confesses. “I want to move them soon.”

“Why would we move them if they’re safe at Mrs. Smith’s?” Hamilton asks. He slips out of Philip’s grip and stands straight. Thomas strains against Peggy’s hold, hating the way he’s forced to slump in zir arms.

“We don’t know if they’re safe at Abigail’s,” Thomas retorts. “They need to be some place where _know_ they’re protected.”

“Moving them puts them in danger of being found.”

“Not if we’re careful.” Thomas pauses, then switches to French. “ _Me and my team are trained in this kind of thing, Hamilton. I know what I’m talking about._ ”

“This whole ‘second language’ thing is awfully convenient for you four, isn’t it?” Peggy says.

“ _Because I trust cops, yeah_.” Hamilton shoots back.

“ _You’re going to have to._ ” Thomas switches back to English. “Burr and his family should be moved.”

“And where would you take them?”

“I was thinking we could help out with that,” Eliza says.

\-----------

Abigail protested the move up until Thomas rolled up his window and blocked her out. He felt bad, the woman obviously thought she could care for and protect Burr, Theodosia and Teddy. But this was for the best, Thomas knew.

Angelica is driving the Crown Victoria, James left behind to find another ride. If Thomas turns around, he can spot Sally and James following some distance behind in an unmarked black car. The fugitive family is in the backseat, Theodosia in the middle and holding Teddy in lieu of a car seat. Burr and Hamilton sit on either side, Hamilton clutching the single bag of belongings that Burr and Theodosia have. Burr’s face as hidden as possible. The ride is silent, save for Teddy’s babbling.

“She is a talker,” Thomas remarks. Burr chuckles.

“She is indeed.”

“She must get it from Theo,” Hamilton says. Burr rolls his eyes and goes back to playing with Teddy, letting her grab onto his finger and bouncing her hand up and down. Thomas watches them in the rearview, marveling at the change in Burr. gone is the cold, weaselly man from a week ago, in his place is a devoted father absolutely in love with his child.

Angelica pulls up to the curb and turns the car off. “We’re here,” she says. Thomas slides out of the Victoria and looks up. Angelica has brought them to an apartment building in Morningside Heights. Unlike Burr’s old building, Angelica’s looks new, modern, and slick. The front door is glass, and slides open as they approach.

“This is supposed to be ‘safer?’” Hamilton mutters, eyeing the transparent front of the building. Angelica scoffs.

“The entire place is staffed by people on _my_ payroll. Strong security and cameras _everywhere_. This place is loads safer.” Angelica leads them across the lobby to a set of elevators. One opens with a satisfying ‘ding,’ and the ride up is smooth.

“What’s your apartment number?” Thomas asks.

“Floors 14 and 15,” Angelica says.

“What?” Burr asks, but Angelica doesn’t get a chance to answer before the door sides open again into a hallway. There’s a single door just a few steps away from the elevator. Angelica walks over to it and unlocks it with a key. She swings the door open and steps inside. Thomas and the others follow, a collective gasp rippling across the group as they all get a look at the Schuyler apartment.

The room sprawls in front of them all plush red carpeting and dark wood. To the right is a large staircase leading to a loft area with a solid railing. To the left the carpet gives way to wood flooring and a large dining room table. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, with glittering glass bulbs twinkling from silver arms.

“The top two floors are ours.” Angelica leads the way into the apartment, Thomas and the others following behind, awestruck.

“Took you long enough,” Peggy says from the second floor landing, leaning over the opaque banister. “Philip, ‘Liza and I set up the guest rooms already.”

“This is too much,” Theodosia breathes, eyes wide. She clutches Teddy to her chest despite the babe’s protests.

“Nonsense!” Peggy exclaims. Ze runs around to the staircase and hops onto the handrail. “Welcome-” ze pushes off and slides down the rail a flurry of fabric and hair. Ze lands at the bottom with a little flourish, bowing deeply. “-to _la casa_ Schuyler.” Ze looks up and winks. “John taught me that phrase.”

Thomas sees Hamilton roll his eyes. “Here, take their damn bottles and diapers.” He shoves the bag he’s holding into Peggy’s arms.

“Rude,” ze teases. Peggy glances into the bag, and frowns. “This all you got?” Ze asks Burr.

“I didn’t exactly have time to pack when I left my apartment,” Burr says, bitterly.

“Well, we’ll rectify that! Think of it as my ‘thank you’ for tipping me off about Revere last year, Burr.” Peggy throws the bag onto the brown leather couch and runs back upstairs. At the tops, ze turns around. “What are you three waiting for? Come see your new rooms!”

Theodosia looks at Burr, unsure. Burr hesitates, lips in a shallow, thin line. He looks at Angelica. “You really don’t have to do this,” he says. “You could just give us a few train tickets and wave us off.”

“And risk you getting hurt? Never.” Angelica starts rooting through her cabinets. “Go see your rooms. I’ll make dinner.”

“You don’t-” Theodosia starts, but Angelica whips her head around and glares.

“I am and I will. Don’t argue with me again.” There’s something in her tone that makes a chill run down Thomas’ spine. Even Burr looks slightly cowed. Angelica smiles again, and turns back to her pantry. “Go.” Burr grabs Theodosia by the waist and pulls her up the stairs. Peggy greets them at the landing and they disappear down a hallway. Thomas sighs, looks about and says:

“Well, that’s that. We’ll be off.” Thomas turns to go, grabbing Hamilton by the shoulder and pulling him along. He drags Hamilton out of the apartment and back to the elevator. It’s only when the door slides shut behind them that Thomas realizes that he is now alone with Hamilton for the next few moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, twenty minutes ago: *casually lying on bed, scrolling through Tumblr.* *remembers it's Saturday* *Flails wildly off bed*
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Phillip's existence will be explained. Don't worry.
> 
> Lauren's Spanish translates into: "If you want to get into his pants this is not the way to do it."
> 
> See you Saturday


	19. Bet Y'all Wish The Entirety Of This Chapter Took Place In That Elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alas, the plot beckons.

Hamilton must come to the same conclusion, and he awkwardly shuffles away from Thomas, putting as much distance between the two of them as possible. That’s fine with Thomas, really, it’s fine. Thomas clears his throat.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence. “You and Eliza. Is that a thing?”

Hamilton sighs. “Used to be.” There’s a regret in his voice that bothers Thomas, but he doesn’t push. It’s not his business. If he pushes, he gets to know Hamilton. If he gets to know Hamilton, he gets attached. If he gets attached…

Thomas doesn’t want another Booth incident.

So he goes another tack. Part of him protests that he shouldn’t be asking at all, but he _needs_ to know, he reasons. As much information as possible without getting attached. “And your relationship to Philip?”

“He’s my son,” Hamilton says. Thomas starts.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“Twenty-four.”

“How old is Philip!?” Thomas tries to do the math in his head.

Hamilton chuckles. “Nineteen, tomorrow.” He looks at Thomas, must see the confusion and concern on his face because he continues: “He’s not my _biological_ son, Jefferson.”

Thomas lets out a breath. “Okay, good.” Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“I met him on the streets when he was thirteen. Took him under my wing. He calls me pops for the hell of it.”

“That makes much more sense,” Thomas says, relieved. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘fathering’ type though.”

“I’m not,” Hamilton snorts. “I’m _awful_ with kids.”

“Don’t know how he survived then, being ‘under _your_ wing’ and all.’”

Hamilton looks at him sharply. “I could be a good father if I tried.”

Thomas barks a laugh “Yeah, sure you could.”

“I _could!_ ’ Hamilton protests, stepping towards Thomas. “I just don’t want to be.”

“You’d be more likely to throw a kid out a window than actually raise it right,” Thomas retorts. Hamilton scowls, and takes another step forward. They’re almost chest-to-chest now, in the tiny space of the elevator.

“Excuse you, I would raise the _best_ damn kid this world has ever seen.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘best.’’ Thomas looks down at the man, locks gazes with his huge brown eyes. There’s a defiant fire in them that makes Thomas’ stomach flip. He finds himself frozen, wanting to take a step back and break this odd tension he finds himself in, but unable to move. There’s nowhere to really go in the elevator anyway. Nowhere to escape to, nowhere to hide. He feels himself being drawn into the dark pits of Hamilton’s eyes. They’re somehow mesmerizing, now that they’re this close and Thomas can’t look away. Hamilton opens his mouth again when the elevator stops moving and the doors open with a ‘ding.’

“Arguing again?” James sighs. And just like that, the spell is broken. Thomas snaps his head to look at his friend and quickly scoots sideways out of the elevator.

“What else?” Thomas replies. “He can’t keep his damn mouth shut.” He can feel Hamilton’s eyes on his back, following as he walks out into the lobby.  Hamilton takes another breath, and Thomas can just _feel_ the oncoming tirade. Just as Hamilton starts to speak, he’s interrupted by Thomas’ phone as it starts to ring. Sending a thankful prayer, he whips out his phone and walks away from Hamilton without a word. He doesn’t recognize the number, but picks up anyway.

“Hello,” Thomas says, pressing the phone to his face.

“Thomas Jefferson! I did get the right number!” Says the voice on the other side, giddy and overjoyed. Thomas frowns.

“Who is this?” He asks. He follows James out of the lobby. Thomas gives James the keys to the Victoria.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize my voice,” says the person. Thomas grits his jaw. There’s a familiar British lilt that sends chills down his spine.

“King,” he mutters. James looks at him in shock from across the car. Thomas slides into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut.

“Good job, Thomas! I knew you’d figure it out!” King says. “Now, how’s the search for Aaron going?”

“Do you honestly expect me to tell you?” Thomas asks. King chuckles.

“Well, I can’t find him or my _things_.”

“Theodosia and Teddy are not _things_ ,” Thomas spits, realizing his mistake too late. King gasps.

“Color me impressed, Thomas,” he says. “You know about the girl and the child.”

“Of course,” Thomas says, cursing himself. “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”

“Well of _course_ you would find out. I just thought it would take more than two days.” King pauses for a second.

“You underestimate the FBI, Mr. King.”

“I suppose I did. Though, how do you know her name?” Thomas feels his stomach drop and before he can come up with a plausible story, King gasps again. “You found them, didn’t you.”

“No,” Thomas says, much too quickly.

“You have, you’ve found them already!” Kings _squeals_. “Oh, I _knew_ getting you involved was a good choice. So, where are they?”

“I don’t know.” Thomas swallows. James puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Oh, but you must! If you found them you wouldn’t have let them go, would you?”

“We haven’t found them, so I don’t know where they are,” Thomas insists. He feels like the ground has been yanked out from underneath him. King tuts.

“Thomas, I don’t like liars,” King warns.

“I’m not lying.” Thomas clutches his phone like a lifeline, trying to find something to say.

“And that’s the second lie you’ve told me,” Kings sighs. “Tell me where they are, Thomas.”

“No, I won’t because I can’t. I don’t _know_.” Thomas’ heart is pounding away in his chest. He swears King can hear it through the phone.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine,” King says, tersely. “Well, it’s not _fine_ , I’ll still be angry. But lies are just going to make it worse.”

“I do not know where they are,” Thomas says. King is silent for a moment. He shuts his eyes and holds his breath. Seconds pass before King speaks again. When he talks, all sense of friendliness is gone, and in its place is nothing but coldness and venom.

“Well then. I guess I’ll just have to give you a little motivation.” The line goes dead. Thomas lowers his phone and stares it.

“Thomas?” James asks. Thomas realizes he’s shaking.

“Hold on. Gotta call Ben.” Thomas searches the car and comes up with a piece of paper and a pen. He jots down King’s number and calls Ben.

“Yo yo yo, what can Uncle Ben do for you?”

“Ben. I just got a call from George King,” Thomas says.

“Well shit,” is Ben’s reply. Thomas gives Ben the phone number and Ben says he’ll start tracking it as best as possible. “If it’s a burner, though, we’re out of luck,” he says.

“I know,” Thomas says. “Where are you?”

“My hotel room. Should I go down to the station?”

“No, you should be safe there. Contact everyone, tell them to get back to the precinct or get somewhere safe.”

“Did King threaten us?” Ben asks.

“Maybe, yeah. I want to play it safe. I’m calling Washington after this.”

“Alright, dude. Where are you going?”

“The precinct.”

“Text me when you get there, yeah?”

“Course. Talk to you later.”

“Godspeed, Tommy boy.”

Ben hangs up. James looks at Thomas quickly, a glance of worry before turning back to the road. “Do you think King is really going to do something? Is he serious?” His phone buzzes, a text from Ben.

**From: UncleBen:**

**cant trace it burner txt me locations of sons want 2 put 2gether list**

“I don’t know. But we’re going to treat it like he is.” Thomas is dials Washington’s number.

“Washington, yeah. I need to you to contact everyone in leadership and give them my number. Tell them to text me their current locations, then get down to _The Frenchman._ We might have a problem.”

\-----------

**From: Unknown number:**

**McDonald’s on 23rd. What’s going on Clark? ~Knox**

Thomas saves Henry Knox’s number and writes down the location. It’s the latest on a long sheet of names and places. Just about every Sons member is accounted for and the team- minus Ben- are all gathered in the precinct. Looking at the text again, he knows he’s going to have to come up with _some_ explanation for everyone, but know is not the time. Once everyone confirmed safe, Thomas will deal with it.

Right now, though, everything feels like it’s exploding.

“You need to calm down, Thomas,” Martha says. “King was probably just talking a big game.”

“He knows my cover, knows my cell number. You weren’t in this room two days ago when he was here.” Thomas sends Ben a copy of Knox’s text and number, just to confirm his location. “He’s terrifying, Martha. King is _serious_.”

“What would he do, huh? Who would he attack?” Louis asks. “He gave you a warning, maybe he won’t follow through. Maybe he just wants to scare you.”

Thomas stares at his phone. Ben hasn’t replied to the last four or so messages, not even to let Thomas know he got them. “He’s going to follow through.”

“If he is, getting worked up isn’t going to help anyone,” Martha says. She puts a hand on Thomas shoulder, trying to comfort him.

“Do you think he was watching? Does he know we were at the Schuylers?” Thomas asks.

“If someone was watching you, King would know where Burr, Prevost and Teddy all are. He wouldn’t have to threaten you,” Martha says. Thomas bites at his lip. He knows Martha is being logical, but it doesn’t help the racing thoughts in his head. Part of him wants to move the young family again, but it’s too risky right now. He feels powerless, just waiting to see what King is going to do. His phone goes off.

**From: Unknown Number:**

**It's Laurens. I’m at home. I can't leave. There's a group of Redcoats across the street.**

“ _Shit,_ ” Thomas hisses. He tells Laurens to stay where he is, stay away from any windows and _hide_. “I know who King’s targeting.”

“Who?” Martha asks.

“Laurens,” Thomas replies. “We need to go. He's surrounded.”

“I never thought I'd see the day where I have to go to John Laurens’ rescue,” Revere mutters. Thomas starts to lead the way out of the meeting room, a plan formulating in his head when Louis speaks up.

“What if we didn't?” He asks. Thomas stops dead in his tracks.

“What do you mean?” James asks.

“What if we _didn't_ go rescue Laurens? Tell Washington we got there too late.”

“And leave him to die?” Thomas asks, disbelief swirling around in his head. Louis nods calmly.

“Yeah, why not? We've got him marked as a threat for when we turn on the Sons. Him dying now would help destabilize things and boost the animosity between the Sons and the Redcoats. We could use this.”

There's a silence in the meeting room as everyone digests what Louis said. Thomas can't quite process what Louis is suggesting, can't comprehend the idea of leaving Laurens to fend for himself.

“No, we can't do that. We can't _abandon_ Laurens,” Thomas says.

“Yes we can. It's not hard,” Louis counters. “We abandoned Davis, back in Charlotte.”

“That was different!” Thomas protests. “It was a mistake.”

“Was it?” Louis asks, one eyebrow cocked.

 _No,_ a voice in Thomas’ head answers. _We only consider it a mistake because of Booth. We could have stopped Booth. Leaving Davis to die had been the right choice._ The voice is urging, telling Thomas to consider it.

 _You leave John and we’ll never forgive you,_ says another voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Hamilton’s. _I’ll never forgive you._

“We’re going to help Laurens, and that's final.” Thomas throws open the door. He hears Louis sigh behind him, but they all follow.

\-------------

“Alright, what's the ‘grand plan’ for once we get there?” Friedrich asks, voice coming from Martha’s’ phone. Revere, Friedrich, and Louis are all in Revere’s unmarked car while the rest of them are in the Victoria. “You know, once we find out where we’re going and get there.”

“It's not my fault Ben hasn't responded!” Thomas protests. When Laurens hadn’t given Thomas his address over text, he'd texted Ben with a request for Laurens’ address but had gotten no response. Revere had made Louis call Sybil and make her dig through the police records. She was trying her best, according to Louis, but systems were slow back at the station.

“The best she’s got is an address from his last arrest three years ago. He wasn't jailed, but it's entirely possible he moved,” Louis says.

“And you won't call any of the Sons?” Sally asks from the backseat.

“I don't want them taking things into their own hands again.” Thomas shakes his head. “Hamilton and Laurens got involved in the hunt for Burr. We let them know something’s up, we’ll have a gunfight on our hands.”

“Who says Laurens hasn't already contacted Hamilton or something?” She asks.

“Let's hope not, but deal with it when we get there.”

“Sybil’s got the current address!” Louis pipes up. Thomas lets out a sigh of relief.

“Get her to send it to me,” Thomas says. A few moments later, his phone buzzes and he reads the address aloud.

“I know where that is. Let me pull ahead of you,” Revere says. James dutifully lets Revere past him, then follows him down countless city streets until Revere pulls over and parks by an intersection. “His place is to the right and down the street,” Revere says. “You all stay here, I’ll troll down and see if I can spot how many there are.”

Thomas glances down Laurens’ street, trying to catch a glimpse of red jackets. “Stay on the phone, we need-” he stops, blinking in shock. “Holy shit,” he mutters.

“What?” Martha asks, peering down the street. Thomas can’t believe what he’s seeing. John Laurens is walking down the street, casually, hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s even whistling to himself as he walks, with slow, languid steps.

“What the fuck is he doing?!” Thomas exclaims. “James, go get him!” James shifts the car into gear, turns the corner and almost flies down the street. The moment Laurens spots them, he stops, a look of confusion spreading across his face. James pulls up to him, stopping just beside the curb. Sally throws open her door quickly. Laurens opens his mouth to speak, but Sally grabs him by the arms and pulls him into the car. Laurens stumbles and falls to the car floor with a curse.

“What the _fuck_?!” Laurens says, trying to push himself up. Martha puts her hands on his shoulders and shoves him back down.

“Stay _down,_ ” she hisses, looking out her window for any signs of Redcoats. Thomas twists in his seat, turned almost completely around as James guns it. The car lurches into forward motion, taking off down the street.

“Are you _stupid_?” Thomas spits. “Just _walking around?_ ”

“Well, I’m _sorry_ I don’t own my own car. It’s not like I’m _poor_ in _New York_ or anything,” Laurens replies, looking up at him from the floor. “What’s the big deal?”

“You fucking tell me!” Thomas _shrieks_.

“Calm down Thomas,” James says, but he’s gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“What’s got you all worked up? I know I was supposed to be at the club a bit ago, but I was asleep okay?” Laurens wiggles around so he’s on his back. “Jesus.”

“What do you mean, you were asleep?” Sally asks.

“I was asleep, how is that confusing?” Laurens asks. He blinks. “Hey, you work at the diner.”

“Not really,” she says.

“Yeah, I see that now,” Laurens grumbles. Thomas grabs his phone from the cup holder. He finds Laurens’ text and holds the phone out to him.

“Did you or did you not send me this text?” Thomas asks. Laurens frowns, takes the phone from his hands and studies the screen.

“That’s not even my number, dude,” he says.

“What?” Thomas snatches his phone back, practically throwing himself into the back seat to get it.

“Not my number, not my text. Can I sit up now?”

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas mutters, staring at the message on his screen. Laurens sits up on the floor of the Victoria, rubbing his chin where he had hit the floor.

“So we freaked out for nothing,” Revere says.

“Is that Revere?’ Laurens asks. Thomas nods. “‘Sup, Paul?”

“Hello, Mr. Laurens. Do not think I haven’t forgotten about your _or_ Lafayette’s assault warrants.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Thomas turns back around, staring at his phone like it might give him answers. _Why would someone pretend to be Laurens?_ Thomas chews his bottom lip. _A distraction. It has to have been a distraction_. _But what for?_

“Louis, are you still on the phone with Sybil?” Thomas asks.

“Yep,” comes Louis’ reply.

“Is...no, that’s stupid. King’s too smart to attack a _police station_ ,” Thomas mutters.

“Woah, woah, woah. Is King doing something?” Laurens asks.

“Maybe,” is James’ reply. Thomas thinks, tries to find a reason for it all. Almost without thinking, he sends Ben a text with the strange number, and lets him know what’s going on. A few seconds later, he finally gets a response from Ben.

**From: UncleBen:**

**Good to hear. Can you stop by my room? I got something you need to see.**

Thomas’ blood runs cold.

That’s not how Ben texts.

“Hotel, _now_ ,” he commands.

\------------

They make it to the hotel in record time. It’s not fast enough.

\-------------

Ben is still wearing the same bathrobe he had been in for the entire assignment when the paramedics put him in the body bag and close it up. Thomas watches them wheel the body away down the hall. There’s a hollow feeling in his stomach. Ben was the one person Thomas hadn’t been concerned about. He was safe, _should_ have been safe.

The security footage tells a different story. A bellboy, one now in custody and a confirmed Redcoat, had let James Reynolds and a gang of boys into Ben’s hotel room. Thomas feels sick. He should have checked the hotel’s employees. He should have told Ben to come down to the station. He should have done a thousand things. It’s all his fault.

But Benjamin Franklin is dead now, shot to death in his hotel room. His phone is gone too, laptops and computer systems trashed. His and Steuben's things are all tossed about, likely having been rifled through for valuables or information.

Friedrich stands in the middle of it all, staring at the blood splatter and bits of brain matter that are the only remains of his best friend still in the room. For the first time ever, Thomas realizes how old Friedrich really is. Thomas knew the man was almost 50, but this is the first time he’s ever looked it.

“Are you okay?” Thomas asks. Friedrich takes a slow breath.

“We’re going to find King, and when we do, I’m going to kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casualty number one: Ben Franklin.
> 
> Others are coming.
> 
> See you Saturday.


	20. Lieutenant Battle With A Vengance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Ben's death, Thomas and Hamilton go head-to-head again.

There’s a little ball of fire that Friedrich’s vow of vengeance lit that’s grown into an all out bonfire in Thomas’ chest. The heat boils his blood and smoke rises from his ears, he can feel it. He’s roasting from the inside out, pure rage burning in every fiber of his being. He thinks it’s only a matter of time before his skin crisps and he starts breathing fire.

Thomas hauls open the front door of _The Fighting Frenchman_ with one arm. It feels like a piece of paper for all the resistance it has against his adrenaline-fueled movements. Thomas walks into the club, glaring at the gathering of men like he’s ready to snap the neck of the first man that speaks to him.

“What kind of bullshit are you pul-” Hamilton starts, but he freezes. Silence descends, broken only by Thomas’ footsteps. He hears Laurens and James walk in behind him, but does not turn around. Thomas stalks over to the circle of chairs, his breathing deep and heavy. He stops behind one of the two empty chairs. Laurens slides into his seat next to Hamilton and all eyes are on Thomas. Waiting.

Thomas realizes the chair in front of him had once been Arnold’s. Benedict Arnold, the man who likely tipped King off to the presence of FBI. Arnold, who started this whole fucking thing. Though the traitor is not in the seat, the sight of the chair is enough to send Thomas over the edge.

Thomas kicks the back of the chair _hard_. It topples forward, hits the ground with a _thud_ and skids into the center of the circle. The legs scrape the dancefloor and Lafayette winces. When it stops, Thomas has half a mind to grab it and throw it at the darkened LED lights that ring the dancefloor. He wants to see something break, hear the sound of shattering glass and crashing metal. But he doesn’t. He stands there, fists clenched until his knuckles are white and nails dig into his own palms.

“King went after one of _my_ friends,” he hisses. His accent is thicker than it normally is, even Thomas can tell. He picks his head up to glare at Washington. “He’s dead.”

There’s a ripple of solemn surprise across the group, but on the faces of those who know that Thomas is a cop, a _federal agent_ no less, are worse. Deep fear, shock and dark realization play across Hamilton, Lafayette, Adams and Washington’s faces.

“He…” Lafayette starts, their mouth agape. Thomas growls, nodding. James puts a hand on Thomas’ arm, trying to comfort him.

“I was too busy trying to make sure _y’all_ were safe.” Thomas looks around the gathering. “I didn’t even _think_ …” Thomas _has_ to hit something else. He settles for punching his own hand and trying to steady his breathing. James slips around him and picks up the chair he had kicked. Silently, James replaces it and sits Thomas down.

“We’re...reeling,” James says, not taking his eyes off Thomas.

“I can imagine,” Hamilton says, voice hoarse and quiet. Thomas glares at him.

“I don’t want your _pity_ ,” Thomas spits. James shushes him, rubbing little circles into Thomas’ arm with his thumb.

“Alright then. Welcome to the party,” one of the men says. Thomas snaps his head to look at him. _Henry Knox_ , his mind supplies. “All of us have lost men to the Redcoats. Grieve, but move on. Quickly. We’ve got a war to fight, let’s move along.”

The thought of running and getting his badge from the car occurs to Thomas, to blow his own cover so that Knox and everyone else knows just how _serious_ Ben’s death is. So they know King went and killed a federal agent. But James grips Thomas’ arm harder and Thomas manages another deep breath.

“I suppose we do,” he says.

“Clark…?” Lafayette asks, trepidation in their voice.

“The gloves are coming off. King made a fucking mistake.” Thomas looks back up at the groups as a whole. “What do y’all need? Drugs? Money? Guns?” Thomas ticks off things with his fingers. “I can get it. Whatever you need, _whenever_ you need. No questions asked. No payment needed.”

“Will!” James says, looking down at Thomas with wide eyes. The other men are looking at him in the same shock.

“Are you serious?” The man to Knox’s right asks. _Nathaniel Green_.

“Deadly,” Thomas replies. A muttering kicks up, but Thomas just glares at a spot on the floor.

“Will,” James says, kneeling down to match Thomas’ sitting height. “We can’t-”

“We can and we will,” Thomas says. “Ben is dead, Matt.”

“I know, but-”

“No buts.”

“Listen to me!” James grabs Thomas’ face so that they’re looking at each other. His voice is low and barely audible over the other men talking amongst themselves. “This is what I was talking about when I said you are making irrational decisions. You can’t just promise free weapons and drugs to a _gang_.”

“I can, I did, and I will be following through.” Thomas matches James’ glare. “It’s too late now. I already said it.”

“You could have talked to me about this! Run this by me first!” James insists. The fire inside Thomas is blazing and it needs someone to lash out on so it chooses the most available target.

“I _don’t_ have to run _anything_ by your first,” Thomas says slowly, rising from his seat. “You’re _my_ second-in-command. I am the team leader and _you_ are not!” He’s shouting now, yelling down at James’ crouching form. “You will _not_ question me, do you understand?!” Thomas knows he’s overreacting, that James is the only person in this room that’s truly on his side, but he’s breathing fire now and it doesn’t stop burning.

“Clark! You need to calm down!” Hamilton says. Thomas whips around to glare at him now. He registers that Hamilton is a much more acceptable target than James is, and lets loose.

“I _am_ calm,” Thomas roars. “Don’t stick your nose into _my_ business.”

“Bull _shit_. Take some deep breaths and listen to whatever Lewis is trying to tell you.”

“You don’t tell me what to do either,” Thomas yells. “You... _you bastard_.”

The room goes dead silent. Thomas can feel everyone’s eyes on him and Hamilton, who is turning a brighter shade of red every second that goes by.

“Well you know what?” Hamilton spits. “You’re nothing but an entitled, piece of shit _asshole_ who can’t tell his head from his ass. What did you _think_ was going to happen, crossing King? He was just going to turn over and surrender? Because you’re the great ‘Will Clark’ and we all should _bow down_ to you?” Hamilton uses air quotes around Thomas’ fake name. “You lost someone, I get it. We all have. That doesn’t mean you get to be a pissy little shit. Mourn. Punch things, kick _chairs_ , do whatever you need to do but don’t you _fucking_ dare take it out on any of us or your men.” Hamilton gestures at James, who looks faintly like a kicked puppy. “Especially _your_ men.”

“I can treat my men however I _want_ ,” Thomas snarls. “ _I_ am in control, _I_ lead them and _I will not be questioned_.”

“You sure need to be, if that’s your attitude!” Hamilton’s gaze is made of steel, piercing Thomas and pinning him in place. “Guess what Clark: _not everything is about you_. I’m _sick_ and _tired_ of this ‘holier-than-thou’ attitude of yours. This anger, the way you’re lashing out, it’s _selfish_. You’re trapped in your own damn head and not thinking straight. All you want to do is make yourself feel better about a shitty thing. And this bullshit about free drugs and things? Shut the fuck up. You’re not doing this to _help_ any of us. You’re doing it to sooth your own anger. Stop acting like you’re doing us a damn favor or pitying us. I, for one, am _not_ going to take you up on your ‘offer.’ _I_ don’t need your charity to exact your revenge for you. Come back in a week. Still want to give us free shit, fine. I’ll take it then. But not when it’s a gift for your own damn ego.”

When Hamilton falls silent, Thomas is in shock. The entire room is wide-eyed in silence.

“I think what Alexander is saying-” Washington clears his throat, “-is that we understand you just lost someone, but maybe you need to take a step back. Take a walk. Sit for a minute.’

“I stop and more people get hurt,” Thomas growls back, but most of the fight is gone. Hamilton’s explosion has cowed Thomas’ fire by sheer force of will.

“Washington’s right, Will. Let’s go. We need to go figure out where we’re staying now anyway.” James latches onto Thomas’ arm and pulls. Thomas lets him lead him away.

“Alexander, you too. Take a walk,” Thomas hears Washington say.

“I-”

“Go.”

“But!”

James pulls Thomas out onto the street before anything else happens. He opens Thomas’ door and almost _pushes_ him inside. James walks to the other side of the car and sits down. For a second, he does nothing, not even turn the car on. The only sound is their breathing. It’s stifling hot in the car, like the escaping heat from Thomas’ anger is collecting in the air around them.

“Do you figure I’ll ever get to stay an entire meeting?” Thomas asks, looking to break the tension. James hits the steering wheel and Thomas falls silent.

“Give me _one_ good reason not to call Farnese _right now_ ,” James says, slowly. “Tell me why I shouldn’t send your ass home.”

Thomas swallows. “They respect me now. Want to work with me.”

“Because you _promised them free shit!_ ” James says, finally looking at Thomas for the first time.

“If you send me away, you have to make up all the favor you’ll lose by doing it.”

“I can do that.”

“Because I’m asking you not to.”

James scoffs. “That’s not good enough.”

“Ben is dead, and it’s _my_ fault, James. _I_ told him to stay where he was. Let me find the men who killed him.”

“Working out of _revenge_ isn’t going to make things better!”

“I don’t see you questioning Friedrich!”

“ _Friedrich_ doesn’t have three concussions. _Friedrich_ didn’t scream at me in a room full of gangsters. _Friedrich_ isn’t blaming himself for _something he couldn’t have prevented_.”

“I _could_ have prevented it! I could’ve-”

“Could’ve done what? Given Theodosia and Burr and Teddy up? Unlocked the ability to tell the future? _What could you have done, Thomas?_ ”

“...I could have brought Ben down to the station.” Thomas mutters. “Could’ve sent him a protection detail.”

“You _could_ have, yes,” James says. “But you didn’t. Because you didn’t _know_. No one could have guessed that King had a bellboy on his payroll. No one knew that King even knew where we were staying. You did what anyone would have done: focused on the more prevalent targets.” He sighs. “You did everything right, Thomas. You tried to help Laurens, who you believed what in danger. We _all_ underestimated King. We _all_ have to deal with the consequences. And- I don’t believe I’m saying this- you need to listen to Hamilton.”

“What?”

“He was right. You’re stuck in this angry headspace and…” he lets out a breath. “I don't know if I can trust you to make good, logical choices right now.”

Thomas bites his lip. “James, please.”

“I'm _trying_ Thomas. Help me find one reason to let you stay.”

“We just lost one team member. Sending me home just makes it worse. We _can't_ drop another person, especially the assignment leader.”

James is silent for a moment, his internal conflict playing out across his face in tiny twitches only Thomas knows how to look for. “This is your last chance, Thomas.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. He opens his mouth to say something else, but is distracted as the door to _The Frenchman_ opens. Hamilton steps out onto the sidewalk, still fuming. Thomas feels a pang of guilt watching him frown and stalk away from the club. Thomas puts a hand on the door handle and swings it open.

“Where are you going?” James asks, grabbing onto Thomas’ sleeve. “We need to figure out a new place to sleep. We can’t stay at _The Montpelier_ anymore. And there’s something about Burr-”

“I know, but I...I have to go talk to him.” Thomas slides out of the car. James opens his mouth to protest, but Thomas says “I’ll be right back, promise,” and shuts the door. He turns and jogs after Hamilton. “Hey, hold up.”

Hamilton’s shoulders scrunch, and he keeps walking. “What.”

“I- stop walking, I’m trying to talk to you.” Thomas grabs onto Hamilton’s shoulder to stop the smaller man. Hamilton rolls his eyes. “I wanted to… apologize. I said some shitty things.”

“Yeah you did,” Hamilton throws Thomas’ hand off. He won’t look up at Thomas, keeps his eyes glued on Thomas’ chest.

“Hamilton, I’m _trying_ -” Thomas can feel the anger resurfacing “-to be civil here, okay? Accept the damn apology.”

“Fine. Accepted. Can I go now?” Hamilton turns his back on Thomas. There’s an odd sadness, almost disappointment, to Hamilton’s words. Thomas grabs a hold of Hamilton’s arm again.

“I-” Thomas stutters, unsure of what he’s going to say. But the forlorn look doesn’t suit Hamilton, so he has to come up with _something_. “Do you know of anywhere we can house six- I mean _five_ people? We can’t exactly stay at the hotel where…” Thomas swallows “We can’t stay where we were.”

Hamilton bites his lip, sighs and says “I know Green’s got a condo or two he owns but isn’t using. I’ll see if he’ll rent them out or something.”

“Okay,” Thomas says. Hamilton nods and tries to walk away again. “Hey!”

“What _now_?”

“I...I need to talk to Burr. Soon.”

“Talk to Angelica about that.”

“I can’t stick around, Hamilton. There’s paperwork I need to do.”

Hamilton sighs again and rubs the back of his neck. He turns to look at Thomas. “Look, we’re having a party for Philip tomorrow at six. Show up at the Schuyler's at five, I’ll let you in. You can talk to Burr then. But you’re gone by six, got it?”

“Of course,” Thomas says. “Schuyler’s, five o’clock.”

“Yeah, see you then,” Hamilton says. Thomas breathes a sigh through his teeth.

“Are you okay Hamilton?” He calls.

“I’m just pissed I’m still talking to you and your stupid face,” Hamilton says over his shoulder. Thomas snorts.

“You’re just sad I didn’t pull your hair again,” he says, hoping for a reaction. He gets it: Hamilton sticks his hands up in the air in a double middle-finger salute. Thomas laughs. _That’s more like it_ , he thinks fondly.

Accept he most certainly doesn’t think it fondly. No siree he thinks it with vile and hatred. Thomas is not getting attached to Hamilton. Never. _That’s more like it_ , he repeats in his head sternly, though it’s more about himself than Hamilton.

\--------------

The rest of the day is spent dodging Farnese and doing mountains of paperwork. Martha and James both tell him that the paperwork can wait. That everyone needs an evening off. Hell, they need to take the week off but they're too far entrenched in this assignment to be replaced now.

_Too far entrenched_ , Thomas laughs. It's only been a week but it feels like the longest week of his life. He focuses on the form in front of him. It's some bullshit dealing with getting Ben’s body back to Virginia. He's halfway through it when he remembers that Ben is- _was_ \- from Massachusetts. He tries to remember where Ben’s wife lives but he only starts thinking about how nobody’s called her yet.

Thomas sighs. He does _not_ want to be the one to make that call. Thomas can count on one hand the amount of times he's had to tell people that their loved ones are dead and he doesn't want that count to increase. There's a quiet knock at the door, then it opens.

“Everything okay in here?” Sybil asks, sticking her head inside. Thomas gives her a withering look and motions to the array of papers on the table. She smiles sympathetically. Though all Thomas wants is to be alone, she comes into the room anyway, carrying two mugs. “Tea? It’s peppermint.” Thomas grunts and she sets the a mug down on the table for him. Thomas doesn’t touch it, he can see it’s steaming hot.

Sybil thumbs through the stack of papers Thomas has already completed. It’s thick, but the stack of things still needing to be done is thicker. She sighs, dropping the stack back onto the table.

“If you’re going to tell me to quit and do this in the morning, save your breath,” Thomas says.

“I wasn’t going to,” Sybil replies. She takes a seat on the opposite side of Thomas, gently sipping on her tea. “This is what I do when…” She trails. “I’ve already finished Cresston and Heins’ paperwork. They’re not even buried yet, you know.”

“What even happened?” Thomas asks. She sighs again.

“They got caught up in a gunfight between a couple of Sons and Redcoat boys. They weren’t even supposed to be there, they were on patrol! They just responded to a call and got caught in the crossfire.” Sybil swirls her tea with her teabag. Thomas frowns.

“It’s not just Safe Harbors, is it?” Thomas asks. “There’s been other deaths, haven’t there?”

“Too many,” she says. “But Paul didn’t think we needed any help. He always thought we could handle this on our own.”

“Most police we work with think that. No one ever needs the FBI until they do and even then, they try and act like they don’t.” Thomas scratches out another line of information and pushes a finished form aside. “It’s part of the job.”

“Sounds like a sucky job.”

Thomas smiles. “You just say that because you don’t have it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You only think it sucks because you…” Thomas trails, trying to find the words he wants. “Working for the FBI is taxing. You’re right, it does suck. If you think about it logically, who would _ever_ want to do what I do? Travel around the country, stick my nose into gangs and mess with criminals, put my _life_ on the line just to put a few boys behind bars. Most people don’t think what I do makes any difference.  I clean up an area, and the moment I’m gone it all goes to hell again.

“And sometimes they’re right. Charlotte’s a bigger mess now compared to when we showed up. But sometimes,” Thomas smiles, “sometimes, it doesn’t. I get to save lives and help people. I’ve met some of the most incredible people in this line of work. There was this boy in Richmond that was getting involved in the drug rings down there, but I helped get him out and now he’s a pre-law student. Wants to work for the FBI too. Brilliant, _genius_ kid that would have been lost to cocaine or meth otherwise.

“So it doesn’t suck. I can’t describe the feeling of knowing I _helped_ people. That I did something _good_. This job is hell, but it’s so rewarding.” Thomas looks down at the papers in front of him. “Most of the time,” he mutters. There’s a silence for a moment, Thomas just staring at the papers, then:

“If you were trying to get me to join the FBI, you didn't sell it very well,” Sybil says, dry as a desert in drought. Thomas snorts. He makes eye contact, and for the first time, he really looks at her. There's a fire in her eyes that reminds him of…

Thomas starts to laugh, wondering how he never noticed before. Sybil’s face scrunches up in an oh-so-familiar way. “It wasn't _that_ funny,” she says. Thomas shakes his head.

“No, no. You just...remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“Hamilton,” Thomas says. Sybil’s eyebrows shoot up.

“The Sons lieutenant?” She asks.

“Yeah, you've got…” Thomas thinks for a moment. “The same sort of...energy, I’d call it. The same general attitude.”

Sybil chuckles. “Do we now? I have a gangster doppelgänger?”

“Not a _doppelgänger_ , per se,” Thomas says. “There are differences.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, I actually like _you_.” Thomas smirks. Sybil barks a laugh, loud and ugly but in an endearing way.

“So what’s the difference? Why do you like me and not him?” Sybil asks. Thomas pauses. Why _does_ he dislike Hamilton? He's loud, argumentative, sassy, and downright insubordinate. But Sybil is all those things too.

“Maybe it has something to do with those concussions he gave me,” Thomas says. Sybil snorts.

“He was just scared, freaked out that you were a cop and _that_ close to Washington,” Sybil says. Thoughtfully, she adds: “Maybe if the two of you weren't on fundamentally opposing teams, you'd be friends.”

“Friends? With _Hamilton_?” Thomas asks. But it's not filled with disgust as it had been when Abigail had brought it up. There’s a curiosity to it this time. _What would it be like to be friends with Hamilton?_ He shakes the thought away. Sybil was right. Thomas was a cop, an FBI agent. Who knew what kind of things Hamilton’s done in the name of The Sons Of Liberty.

“A nice thought, but you said it yourself. We oppose each other at the most basic level. _Friendship_ isn't possible.” Thomas puts his pen back to the paper, pushing all wishes of a positive relationship with Hamilton away. “If this whole operation didn’t end with Hamilton behind bars maybe, just _maybe_ , then we could be friends”

Sybil shrugs. “In another lifetime, then.” She glances around the table. “Anything I can help you with?” She asks. Thomas shakes his head.

“I think I'd rather do this alone, Sybil,” he says. “Thanks for the tea, though.”

“Yeah yeah. Just make sure you sleep sometime, okay?” Sybil asks.

“Okay mom,” Thomas teases. She sticks her tongue out at him and leaves, the meeting door shutting behind her with a soft _click_. Thomas looks down at the papers in front of him. In the silence, Thomas finds he immediately misses Sybil’s presence. Just having her here, gentle teasing and sass included, had made him feel better. For a split second, Thomas considers calling her back in, but he decides against it. She has things to do herself, and comforting him was not one of those things.

Thomas leans over the table, trying to ignore how suddenly lonely he is. He wishes _someone_ were here with him. Ben, James, Sybil, anyone. Hamilton, even. _Yeah_ , _it would be nice to have Hamilton here_ , part of him thinks. He’s too tired to really argue with his brain, so he lets whatever part of him not focused on the paperwork think about what would happen if Hamilton _were_ here.

As he scribbles in more information, he plays out dumb arguments in his head until he falls asleep against the desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to let everyone know I read every comment that comes through and, even if I don't reply, I appreciate each and every one. Especially last week's. That was fun, wasn't it?
> 
> Also I know this one is short but believe me the next couple of chapters are pretty long.
> 
> See you Saturday


	21. Philip and Laurens: The Ultimate Wingmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James makes a questionable choice, Burr drops some plot, then Thomas lets the Sons talk him into something.

“Thomas, wake up.” Someone’s shaking him.

“Go away,” Thomas slurs, curling his head further into his arms.

“Wakey-wakey, eggs-and-bacy,” Steuben teases. Thomas groans.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he mutters, but he opens his eyes. He’s greeted by the blur of slept-in-contacts and the accompanying headache. He sits up and hears the bones in his back and neck crack up and down.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Steuben offers Thomas a coffee cup. At least, Thomas _thinks_ it’s a coffee cup. He really can't see anything. He rubs at his eyes, yawning and stretching a crick in his neck.

“Brought your contact stuff from the hotel,” James says from beside Thomas. “And your glasses.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Walk me to a bathroom?” Steuben laughs at him as he flails about for James’ arm, latching on and stumbling to the bathroom. Inside the brightly lit precinct bathroom, Thomas pulls his contacts out of his eyes and fumbles with the solution.

“How late were you up?” James asks.

“Late enough to get most of it done,” Thomas replies. James just sighs. He hands Thomas his glasses when the taller man reaches for them blindly. Slept-in contacts give him just as much vision as his normal sight, so when he settles the glasses on his face it's a relief.

Until he looks at his face as sees the haggard, barely slept look he's wearing. He groans, pushed his glasses up his face and slashes water on himself.

“How are you holding up?” James asks.

“Like a damn umbrella in a hurricane,” he replies. “You?”

“That sounds just about right,” James chuckles. Thomas offers a weak smile. There's a silence as Thomas readjusts his glasses.

“Ben is dead, James,” Thomas says.

“I know.”

And that's all there is to say on the matter.

“So, about Burr, I’ve been thinking…” James trails. Thomas cocks an eyebrow in the mirror.

\--------------

Thomas doesn't know how five o’clock rolls around, the time drags on as the team goes through the homicide investigation routine, the familiar motions colored a little differently now that it's Ben and not a faceless victim. But the world still spins, and Thomas finds himself at the Schuyler apartment with James at Hamilton’s appointed time. He’s carrying his weapon again, Steuben having insisted that everyone stays armed from now on. The safety’s on, but it’s cold and uncomfortable against Thomas’ skin.

Philip opens the door, a mess of freckles and curly hair. He's got a little paper hat seated in the giant mane of hair and a lea draped around his neck. _Right_ , _it's this kid’s birthday_ , Thomas remembers. He says something to that effect, and Philip beams at him.

“Thanks!” He chirps. He turns his head and calls: “ _Dad! Clark and Lewis are here!”_

“Tell them I'm not here,” Hamilton calls back. Philip rolls his eyes and moves away from the door. As Thomas and James walk in, Hamilton looks over the back of the couch he’s sitting on. A half-formed word dies on his lips as he freezes, looking at Thomas with wide eyes. His mouth hangs open for a second, “I-uh, wow. Uh, you…” Hamilton coughs. “You look awful.”

Thomas scowls. “Unlike some of us, I have an actual job to do,” he says by way of explanation. Hamilton huffs, standing up from the couch.

“Speaking of which,” he says, “Green says he’s got two condos he’s willing to get you use, free of charge.”

“We’ll take both,” James says. Thomas looks at him. “One for the ladies, one for the rest of us,” James explains. Thomas, shocked, grabs James’ shoulder.

“Should we split up?” he asks. James nods, reaching up and squeezing Thomas’ hand.

“Might be safer,” he says.

“Whatever you want,” Thomas concedes. Hamilton glares at them, lip curled slightly.

“I’ll get Burr,” he says, turning away quickly. He disappears behind the staircase, and Thomas hears him open a door. Thomas glances around, and spots Philip loading beer into the fridge.

“I thought they were all upstairs?” Thomas asks. Philip shrugs.

“They didn’t want to keep Teddy upstairs. Aunt Angelica gave them her bedroom,” he says, focusing on packing the fridge as full as possible. There are boxes of empty twelve packs in a pile next to him. Philip pulls the last one out of the last box, eyes the fridge, then pops it open and takes a huge swig of it. Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you nineteen?” He asks. Without missing a beat, Philip replies:

“Don’t you sell drugs for a living?”

Thomas snorts. “Touché kid.” Philip smirks at him and takes another drink. Thomas opens his mouth to tease him a bit more but Hamilton appears from under the stairs. Without Burr.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Hamilton announces.

“Uhh...not really the issue?” Thomas says. “I _need_ to talk to him.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Hamilton says. “He doesn’t want to talk to you while Lewis is here.” Hamilton looks pointedly at James. “He’s only comfortable talking to Clark.”

“So what does he want?” Thomas asks, squeezing James’ hand.

“Lewis goes. Leaves the building and _fucks off_ ,” Hamilton spits. Thomas’ grip on James’ hand turns white-knuckled.

“Not gonna happen.” Thomas shakes his head. “Lewis and I are a package deal.”

“Then Burr’s not coming out,” Hamilton counters. Thomas scowls and takes a step forward.

“I’ll just go to him, then,” Thomas says haughtily. Hamilton puts himself between Thomas and the staircase.

“No you aren’t.” Hamilton plants his hands on Thomas’ chest to stop him. Thomas tries to dodge to the side but Hamilton is an agile little man. “You try and bust your way back there, you’re just gonna get yourself shot,” Hamilton explains. Thomas huffs.

“We’re at an impasse then. Lewis isn’t-”

“It’s okay Will,” James interrupts. Thomas snaps his head around in shock. James has his hands stuck in his pockets, already pulling out his phone.

“Matt?” Thomas asks, confusion written across his face. “What happened to-”

“It’ll be fine. You’re just talking to Burr, then coming right down.” James shrugs. “This is too important.” Thomas blinks, taken aback.

“If you’re sure…” Thomas trails. James nods and heads for the door. It's

“See ya around, Lewis,” Philip calls. James waves his goodbye and steps out. Thomas just watches him go, shocked and more than a little confused. Hamilton looks just as surprised, though the look on his face reads _I can’t believe that worked_. Thomas’ phone buzzes and it’s a text from James.

**From: Jemmy:**

**I’m trying to trust you Thomas. Don’t fuck this up.**

_Oh_ , Thomas smiles. He sends a quick ‘thank you,’ and turns back to Hamilton.

“Alright, bring the man out,” Thomas commands. Hamilton’s expression morphs into anger.

“Yes _your majesty_ , “ he drawls, heading back behind the stairs. A second later, he reappears, Burr and Theodosia in tow. Teddy is in her mother’s arms, tiny hands tangling in Theodosia’s thick dreadlocks. Theodosia winces when the child pulls too hard, but she smiles at Teddy anyway.

“Afternoon,” Burr says, a nod as the rest of his greeting. Thomas smiles.

“How’s the happy family?” He asks. Theodosia smiles up at him, but Burr’s face stays neutral.

“Been better, been worse,” he states. Thomas flinches internally. “What is it you need?”

Thomas glances back at Philip, who’s leaning against the counter and taking long swigs of beer from the bottle. Hamilton says his name like a command. Philip’s eyebrows shoot up, but he gets the message. Muttering something about ‘never getting to be a part of the fun stuff,’ Philip heads up the stairs and disappears down the second floor hallway. Once he’s gone, Thomas gestures to the kitchen table and they all find a seat. Thomas folds his hand on the table in front of him, letting the silence sit for a minute.

“Has Hamilton told you what happened yesterday?” He asks. Burr and Theodosia glance at one another.

“Just that someone’s died, why?” Burr asks carefully. Thomas looks at Hamilton, who shrugs.

“Figured you should tell them,” he says. Thomas sighs.

“King called me after we moved the three of you.” Theodosia gets a panicked look on her face and Thomas rushes to console her. “He doesn’t know where you are, you’re still safe. In fact, he called me to ask where you were. He assumed I would tell him, but I didn’t. In retribution, he had James Reynolds attack and kill one of my agents,” Thomas finishes quietly. Theodosia gasps and Burr grabs onto her free hand.

“Over us?” Burr asks, his voice straining under pressure to stay even. Thomas nods.

“Over you.” Thomas looks between them, watching Theodosia’s face run a gambit of emotions while Burr’s stays worryingly neutral. “Which brings me to why I’m here. I, and the rest of my remaining team, are finding it _very_ hard to believe that King would order a hit on a federal agent over a single working girl. No offence, Mrs. Prevost,” he adds, “but it seems to me he’s more concerned about the whereabouts of Burr than he is _you_.”

“What are you saying?” Hamilton asks. Thomas turns to Burr, hoping to catch any flicker of emotion in his face.

“King isn’t after Mrs. Prevost, is he, Mr. Burr?” Thomas asks. “He’s after you.”

Burr stiffens, his grip on Theodosia’s hand tightens and Theodosia squeezes back. Burr’s lips form a thin, white line. Hamilton watches him, his eyes alight in concern.

“I have no idea, Mr. Clark,” Burr says, voice tight. “If he is, I have no idea why.”

“Bullshit,” Hamilton bursts out before Thomas can say anything. Thomas sends him a glare, though he’s grateful Hamilton has decided to throw his support behind Thomas.

“Mr. Burr,” Thomas warns, “I lost a _very_ good friend defending you. I suggest you tell me the truth.” He stares Burr down, silently demanding Burr speak. The man in question looks at Theodosia, a silent conversation playing between the two of them. Theodosia ends it with a very pointed look and Burr deflates.

“You’re right, King is after me.” Burr doesn’t look away from Theodosia, almost like he needs her support to be honest for once. “Before I met Theo...you know how I lived between gangs. Trading information for money, favors or safety. Sometimes, _most of the time_ , information for information. I know a lot about King’s operation, setup, and plans. Information he wouldn’t want getting out, _especially_ if I told the Sons.”

Thomas grits his jaw. James had thought it might be something like that. He opens his mouth to respond, a _thank you for telling me_ on his lips-

“You’ve been holding out on us!?” Hamilton exclaims. Burr’s head snaps around to look at the smaller man, Hamilton now turning a familiar shade of pink. “What the hell man? After we take you in?”

“It’s a precaution,” Burr says.

“Against what? King’s already after you!” Hamilton throws his hands out in front of him in disbelief, rising from his seat. “What do you have to be _cautious_ about?”

“When King gets his hands on us, I want to be able to say I never told any of his secrets. He might show us some mercy then,” Burr explains. Thomas’ brow furrows, but Hamilton is already speaking.

“Do you really think that’ll save you?!” He asks, disbelief rolling from him in waves. Burr shakes his head.

“No, but maybe our deaths won’t be as painful.” Burr squeezes Theodosia’s hand. Everyone, even Teddy, possibly sensing the mood of the room, falls silent. Thomas leans forward in his seat.

“What do you mean, _when_ King finds you?” he asks. Burr sighs, and gives him a withering look.

“We know we’re living on borrowed time, Mr. Clark. George King always wins in the end.” Burr says it like a universal truth, something that Thomas cannot argue. But he does, overriding Hamilton’s repeating “Bullshit!” exclamation.

“That's not true, Mr. Burr,” Thomas says. “I can get the entirety of the-” he lowers his voice a little “-US government to protect you. Witness protection is something we can explore.”

“When? At what cost?” Burr asks, matching Thomas’ volume. “My testimony against King? My help taking him down? The information I have?” Burr shakes his head. “If you could guarantee me that King and every single one of his followers would be behind bars _tomorrow,_ then maybe I’d consider telling you what I know. But as it stands? We’d be dead before Witness Protection could even process our case.”

“You have no faith in-” Thomas begins to say, to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Grumbling, Hamilton stands and marches over to the door. He has to stand on his toes to look through the peephole, and if Thomas weren’t busy having a stare-down with Burr he would have laughed. Hamilton lets out a noise somewhere between relief and annoyance and swings open the door.

“Yo, Alex!” Laurens exclaims. He’s holding a box under one arm, leaning against the doorframe.

“We brought the wine bottles!” Lafayette’s voice comes from the hallway. Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“Only you two would show forty-five minutes early to a nineteen-year-old’s birthday party,” he says. Lafayette pushes past Laurens and winks at Hamilton, shaking the three bottles of wine they have.

“And the birthday boy is-” Lafayette trails as they look around the apartment. Their joyous tone and expression is dropped when they sees the locked staring competition going on over the kitchen table.

“Upstairs while we take care of business,” Hamilton explains. Laurens looks between them, hands in his pockets.

“Should we be involved?” Laurens jerks his head to indicate Lafayette. Thomas bites the inside of his cheek, the other Sons might be able to help convince Burr to spill what he’s got, but…

“It doesn’t matter,” Burr says, standing. “Because this conversation is over.”

“Burr?” Hamilton whips his head back around to look at the man in question.

“My answer is no, Hamilton.”

“You really should reconsider-” Thomas starts, but Burr shakes his head.

“I would rather spend my last days with the person I love and my daughter, not carted around by you and your people,” he insists.

“If you would just trust me, you wouldn’t have to worry about dying!” Thomas exclaims, standing to glare at Burr. He puts his hands over the table and leans towards the man. “Burr, I can help keep you safe!”

“But you can’t guarantee anything,” he retorts.

“Well, no, but no one can guarantee anything in this world,” Thomas counters.

“Then there’s no reason to discuss this further. My answer is no.” Burr puts a hand on Theodosia’s shoulder. Thomas, halfway through an idea about a subpoena, gets a flash of inspiration.

“Mrs. Prevost, you cannot possibly agree! Think of Teddy,” he begs. Theodosia’s expression hardens and Thomas knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“I am, Mr. Clark. You do not know George King like I do. The best way to protect my daughter is to keep her here, with us, stay silent and wait for retribution.” Theodosia holds her daughter close to her chest, as if Thomas is going to reach out and take the child from her. Thomas just stares at her, unbelieving.

“You’d rather just wait and _condemn_ yourselves to death then do the logical thing and save yourselves.”

“We are dead either way, Mr. Clark. The answer is no,” Theodosia says, cooly. Burr nods. Thomas doesn’t fight the disbelief on his face. Hamilton is wide-eyed as well, stunned into silence for once in his life. Theodosia stands, moving carefully so as not to jostle Teddy.

“I believe we have reached an understanding,” Burr says cooly.

“Fine,” Thomas breathes. “I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“There’s gotta be something you can do!” Hamilton whirls on Thomas. “Make him talk.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me, Hamilton, but you overestimate my power.” Thomas stalks around Burr, feet hitting harshly against the floor.

“But!” Hamilton exclaims. Thomas shakes his head.

“That’s that. I’m off.” Thomas stops to call up the stairs. “Happy Birthday Philip, have a good one.” Not a second later, Philip appears at the banister, hair in a large poof around his head.

“Y’all done?” He asks, eyes alight and grinning. Then he spots Laurens and Lafayette and his grin gets bigger. “John! Laf! Did you bring the stuff?” Lafayette holds the bottles up and Laurens holds the box up for Philip to see. Philip laughs, whooping. Thomas cracks a smile, then turns to the door. He’s halfway to the door when Philips calls down again. “Leaving already Clark?”

“Yeah, see you around,” Thomas says, hand outstretched towards the doorknob.

“You’re not gonna stay?” Philip sounds confused, almost disappointed.

“Didn’t think I was invited,” Thomas snorts.

“You’re not,” Hamilton grunts. Philip frowns.

“You’re invited if I say you are, so you’re invited.”

“Well, I’ll have to respectfully decline,” Thomas says, over Hamilton’s exclamation of ‘Philip!’

“What, pops? It’s my birthday. B.T. just cancelled, so we’re down a man. If Clark’s already here…” Philips trails, looking at Thomas hopefully. Thomas shakes his head.

“I really shouldn’t stay,” he says, but part of him _wants_ to.

“That’s the single thing we agree on,” Hamilton interjects, “so get outta here.” Thomas rolls his eyes, catching sight of Lauren’s growing grin.

“Bet you couldn’t spend the evening with Clark and not gripe the whole time,” Laurens challenges. Hamilton scoffs.

“I could!”

Lafayette rolls their eyes, but Laurens’ shit-eating grin doesn’t falter. “Twenty bucks says otherwise.”

“Twenty bucks wouldn’t get you-”

“Fifty.”

Hamilton pauses, working his jaw. He turns to Thomas and points to him. “You. Stay. Party.” Hamilton points at the ground. Thomas cocks one eyebrow.

“One, that wasn’t a full sentence,” he teases, “two, that’s not your decision to make.”

“Oh, but won’t you stay? Please?” Philip begs, eyes wide as saucers. Thomas wonders where he got that puppy-dog look from. “For me?”

Thomas hesitates. He shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t. This is how he gets attached. But Philip looks absolutely _pitiful_ , Hamilton is glaring at him and Laurens is grinning wickedly and now Thomas can’t help but wonder what an evening with the Sons would really be like. No work, no worries, just a birthday party. He’s been lonely today, drowning in the fallout of Ben’s death and he’s tired of being serious all the time.

 _Besides_ , _gotta build trust somehow_ , he justifies. _Maybe I can even convince Burr and Theodosia to change their minds_. With the logical part of him satisfied, the emotional part erupts into cheers and Thomas already feels satisfied with his choice.

“I’ll text Lewis, tell him I’ll be late,” he grunts, trying to sound as gruff as possible. Philip cheers, and Thomas can’t help but smile. He hides it in his phone screen, sending James a quick ‘hey-burr’s-being-stubborn-gonna-be-a-while-don’t-wait-up’ text, then pockets his phone before James can respond. The second it’s away, Lafayette grabs his arm and drags Thomas to the couch.

“You’re not going to regret this, _mon ami_ ,” they say.

“I already am,” Thomas retorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me through the weekend! I had an amazing time!
> 
> See you Saturday!


	22. Alexander 'Tomcat' Hamilton Puts On The Moves: Asking About Recently Deceased Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter so far includes:  
> The lamest gangster party ever held  
> Drunk twister  
> Feelings  
> And maybe kisses...?

Thomas thinks he sees Laurens and Philip share a discreet high-five, but then Hamilton is shoving a beer in his hand and Thomas’ attention snaps to him. “Uh, excuse me? What if I don’t want this?” He asks, waving the bottle in the air. Hamilton rolls his eyes, snaps open his own beer and takes a swing.

“You’re going to need it,” he says. Thomas doesn’t understand, but before he can ask Hamilton to elaborate, the Schuyler siblings are running down the stairs, six sets of feet creating a cacophony that makes Thomas wince.

“What I _need_ is Tylenol,” he says.

“Are you okay?” Eliza asks, coming to a stop by the couch. Thomas nods.

“Yeah, leftover headaches from the concussions, is all. No biggy.” Thomas shrugs. Eliza looks at him in concern.

“Concussions?” She asks. Laurens breaks out into laughter.

“Oh shit, you guys haven’t heard the story yet, have you?” He asks. Hamilton glowers as Eliza shakes her head. “Well, lemme tell you what happened the first time Clark here met good ol’ Alexander.”

By the time Laurens finishes an edited version story- omitting any mention of Thomas’ true profession and complete with interruptions from Hamilton and Thomas arguing about the details- Thomas has had both his Tylenol and a bottle and a half of beer. It’s not very good, Thomas would prefer wine, but Lafayette has hidden the bottles they brought and Thomas is not about to ask.

Burr and Theodosia had excused themselves at some point, disappearing behind the staircase. Despite the two being half of Thomas’ reasoning to stay, he made no move to stop them.

Peggy is dying of laughter, leaning over the couch armrest. “You said-” ze struggles to speak between giggles, “you said you broke your nose on a door!” Hamilton scowls, turning a light shade of pink.

“Less embarrassing than getting beaten up by some southern prick,” he says. Laurens tutts.

“Remarks like that are going to cost you fifty big ones,” Laurens reminds him. Hamilton just scowls further.

“Is everyone sufficiently buzzed yet?” Hamilton grumbles, finishing off the last of his second bottle. Thomas can feel the alcohol turning the edges of his brain fuzzy, but he doesn’t know if ‘buzzed’ is the right word. He’s probably not there yet, but he nods anyway as everyone else around him does. Philip beams from where he’s surrounded by three empty bottles already.

“Lafayette! Get the goods!” He commands, giggling a little. Lafayette chuckles and puts their drink down. They reach around the back of the couch and pulls out the box Laurens had brought with them. It’s covered in duct tape to hold it together, but Thomas can see bits of white, green and blue. Someone’s scrawled something on the top in sharpie, but Thomas can’t see what it says.

He leans towards Lafayette, curious. The others ‘oo’ and ‘ah’ as Laf shakes the box in their hands. Thomas glances around the circle, hoping for some sort of hint as to what he’s gotten himself into. “Ladies, gents, and Peggy, behold!” Lafayette whisks the top of the box off and Thomas peers inside.

 _Oh no_.

Thomas recognizes that plastic white mat and the accompanying spinner of death and destruction. He recoils from the box and assumes the laughter he hears is at him. “No, no fuckin way,” he breathes. “I am not playing-”

“ _Birthday Twister!_ ” Lafayette exclaims, dumping the devil’s mat onto the ground. Immediately, Angelica and Hamilton both dive for it, arguing about who gets to set it up. Thomas just watches in mounting horror.

“Clark?” Eliza giggles. Thomas just shakes his head.

“I am _not_ playing _Twister_.” Thomas swears he shudders when he says the name, feeling the cursed word pass his lips.

“Oh yeah you are!” Laurens exclaims.

“I’ll spin the spinner,” Thomas offers, reaching out for it. Lafayette jerks it away from him and tosses it to Laurens.

“Oh no you aren’t!” Laurens flicks the black arm of doom. “That’s my job.”

“Why?!” Thomas practically shrieks.

“Because I said so,” Laurens teases. Thomas considers launching himself at Laurens, _determined_ to get his hands on that spinner. He’ll be damned if he sets foot on that mat.

“Oh, come on Clark, it’s fun!” Philip says. “Even better when everyone’s buzzed.”

“I would need to be blackout drunk before you could convince me to play,” Thomas retorts.

“We tried playing drunk once…” Eliza says, sadly. “Only Peggs remembers it.”

“And I ain’t tellin!” Peggy informs Thomas gleefully.

“Just one round?” Hamilton asks, straightening the last corner of the mat out. “It’s tradition everyone goes one round.” Hamilton looks up at him, and Thomas knows who taught Philip to look so damn pathetic. Even on Hamilton, the look works.

“Fine,” Thomas sighs. “But I’m not going first!”

Round one is Lafayette, Angelica, Philip and Hamilton. Philip falls almost immediately, three beers having hit him harder than most of the others. Lafayette goes next, unable to tuck their leg under Hamilton for a tricky ‘right-foot-red’ move and unintentionally takes the smaller man with them. Angelica cheers her victory, chugging a bottle in celebration. Thomas manages to avoid the second round, watching the Schuyler siblings go up against Hamilton. A few turns pass before Angelica ‘accidentally’ knocks Hamilton down, leaving the mat with him. For a while, it looks like Peggy is going to take it, but Eliza is surprisingly flexible and she pulls it out.

The third round looks like it’s going to be Peggy, Philip and Hamilton. _Little guy really likes twister_ , he thinks, not noticing Peggy’s hand around his wrist until it’s too late. Ze pulls him off the couch and to the edge of the mat. “Shoes and socks off,” ze commands, glaring at him until Thomas swallows his pride and strips his feet bare.

“Right hand blue!” Laurens calls. _I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ Thomas thinks as he bends down and places his hand on a blue circle. He’s starting on one of the smaller sides, Hamilton opposite him. He catches the competitive glint in Hamilton’s eye and suddenly Thomas wants nothing more than to beat him. Not even win, just beat Hamilton.

They’re ten calls into the game before Thomas remembers that- despite his hatred for it- he’s really good at Twister. Unlike Lafayette, who had been slightly gangly and unwieldy, Thomas is agile as he slides an arm around one of Peggy’s to complete a “left-hand-green” call. Ze looks at him in surprise, he’s bent over backwards and almost wrapped around zir middle. He winks at zir and smirks.

“For someone who hates this game, you’re damn good,” Angelica remarks. Thomas twists his head to look at her.

“Why thank you darlin’. I have _lots_ of practice bending my body around.”

“Playing a game you don’t like?” Eliza asks. Lafayette lets out a little ‘oh no, honey,’ under their breath.

“ _Other_  things, ‘Liza dear.” Thomas smirks as she turns a shade of bright red. Hamilton makes an odd little noise from the other side of the mat, but it’s masked by Philip understanding the joke a half-second later and breaking out into giggles. He’s bent over in such a way that the slight movement his laughter causes sends him tumbling to the ground. His back hits the mat and one of his shoulders goes right into Peggy’s leg. For a second, Thomas thinks ze’s going to recover, but ze folds under the impact and Thomas only barely manages to stay up. Peggy grumbles about drunk children as ze extracts zirself from underneath Thomas.

It is at this particular moment that Thomas realizes he’s facing Hamilton and Hamilton alone. The determination to beat the shorter man comes back in force and Thomas can’t help the smile that crawls across his face. Laurens makes a couple of calls that end up flipping Thomas over and stretching him out towards Hamilton. Hamilton, on the other hand, is straining, awkwardly almost sideways with his back to Thomas.

Thomas eyes the other man’s position. The wrong spin and Hamilton is done for. Meanwhile, Thomas is in an _amazing_ position, limbs untangled and spread. Holding his breath, Thomas waits for what he hopes is the final call. It doesn’t come, Hamilton breathing a sigh of relief as he manages to put himself into a crab position and settle himself. Thomas frowns. Victory isn’t coming yet.

“Right hand green.” Thomas shifts his right hand over one. “Left hand green. Right foot red.” It's almost like Thomas is bear-walking down the mat even closer to Hamilton, and Hamilton is coming in his direction. Too late does Thomas realize what’s happening. _Oh no_ , he thinks, hoping the next call won’t-

“Left foot red.” Thomas tries to back out of what he sees coming, but Hamilton hasn’t noticed and blocked the one safe move Thomas can make. _No, no no nononono-_ but Thomas can’t avoid it. He puts his foot down and prays. _No right hand green, literally anything else, please god, no-_

“Right hand green.” Thomas can hear the smirk in Laurens’ voice. He snaps his head up.

“You can’t be fucking serious!” He exclaims. Laurens grins wickedly and shows him the spinner board.

“I’m sorry my dude,” he says unapologetically. “Gotta fulfil it.” Thomas looks down, trying to find a way out of this, but Hamilton has already moved.

“What’s the big deal?” Hamilton asks, his head tilted back and not seeing what’s about to happen. Thomas winces, bites the bullet and puts his hand down. The moment Thomas centers his weight, Hamilton snaps his head up, now perfectly aware of the ‘big deal.’

They are right on top of one another, their hands and feet next to each other and- thanks to Hamilton’s back-bend- their chests are touching. Hamilton looks up at him, eyes full of some emotion Thomas can’t place but he’s struck again by how fucking pretty they are.

“Hey,” Thomas breathes, wincing. Hamilton gulps, and the room erupts into laughter. But Thomas barely hears them, the pressure of the other man’s chest against his is too distracting, the way Hamilton’s face looks framed by Thomas’ own curls draping downwards is doing something to Thomas he really doesn’t want to happen. Something flares in the bottom of his stomach and _no this is not happening not now not here_. Thomas tries to arch his back away from Hamilton as best he can but this round has been going on pretty long and his arms and legs are starting to shake.

“John spin the damn thing, would you?” Hamilton asks, his voice oddly tight. Laurens hums.

“Nah. We’re going to take a drink break. You two stay right there,” he says. Thomas snaps his head up to glare at him. There’s barely-contained mirth on his face and Thomas wants to slap it off.

“John Laurens I swear to god!” Hamilton exclaims, voice shaking. _From the exertion of the game_ , Thomas reasons.

“Did you say something Alex?” Laurens asks, false innocence in his voice. “Can’t hear you over this beer I’m drinking.”

“ _That doesn’t even make any sense, spin the damn thing before I kill you!_ ” Hamilton is looking anywhere but Thomas right now and Thomas is infinitely grateful for that.

“ _Disfruta de la vista por un tiempo, Alex,_ ” Laurens mocks. Hamilton _shrieks_ , dropping his position and landing with a _thud_. Before Thomas can even process his victory, however, Hamilton is struggling to get out from under him and Thomas doesn’t have time to move or react when Hamilton’s arm hits the inside of his elbow. Thomas’ arm crumples and a second later his body is following suit, falling down and pinning Hamilton to the ground. Thomas’ chin hits Hamilton’s nose and soon their limbs are all tangled together on the ground.

The entire room is echoing in laughter as Thomas struggles to pull himself off Hamilton. Hamilton is cursing and he pushes himself into a sitting position as soon as he can. Thomas falls backwards, the speed of Hamilton popping up taking him by surprise. Then he sees Hamilton clutching his nose and _oh fuck right it’s broken_.

“Shit, you okay?” He asks. Hamilton pulls his hands away from his face to reveal a _torrent_ of blood gushing down his face.

“John!” Hamilton calls, voice nasal and wet. John is off the couch in a flash and trying to examine Hamilton’s nose from the side. Thomas just sits on his knees and watches. After a second, John lets out a sigh.

“Nothing shifted, nothing re-broke. You probably just burst a healing blood vessel.” John sits back on his haunches. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

“Bathroom,” Angelica offers. “Quickly, before he bleeds on the carpet.”

“Thanks for the concern,” Hamilton mutters, drawing a bark of laughter from the woman. John goes to stand, then seemingly gets a better idea.

“Actually, Clark, why don’t _you_ take Alex to the bathroom and patch him up?” John smiles at Thomas. Thomas blinks, then frowns.

“Why?” he and Hamilton say simultaneously. Hamilton is trying to staunch some of the blood with his shirt.

“Because you’re the one who fell on him,” John says simply, seemingly leaving no room for argument.

“What if I don’t know first-aid?” Thomas protests. Laurens cocks an eyebrow and _damn that smirk is infuriating_.

“You do know how to deal with a bloody nose, right?” He asks. Hamilton is glaring at Laurens like he wants to throttle the freckled man.

“Just go fix papa,” Philip slurs “and we can get back to the game.” Thomas huffs and grabs Hamilton by the arm. He hauls the man to his feet, a little surprised at how light Hamilton is, and pulls him in the direction of the kitchen bathroom. Hamilton stumbles along behind him, glaring and making gestures at Laurens, who just shoots him a thumbs up in response. Thomas shoves Hamilton inside the bathroom and turns to shut the door.

“Alright John, what do you know that we don’t?” is the last thing Thomas hears before the door is shut and the conversation is muffled. Hamilton awkwardly stands on the bathroom rug, holding his nose in his shirt and looking at the ground. Thomas glances around the bathroom, realizing he doesn’t know where the first aid kit is.

“In the cabinet,” Hamilton tells him, voice quiet from under his shirt. Thomas throws open the medicine cabinet and grabs the small box and shuts the mirror door before he can see anything else. Medicine cabinets always make him nervous, even when searching one with a warrant. He turns back to Hamilton, who shifts awkwardly on his feet. Thomas motions to the toilet.

“Sit,” he commands. Hamilton hesitates, then does as Thomas instructed, still holding his shirt to his face. It’s bloodied all to hell and Thomas hopes the Schuylers have something he can wear. A topless Hamilton is _not_ something Thomas wants to deal with all night. Thomas puts the first-aid kit and roots around for gauze.

“ _Do_ you know first-aid?” Hamilton asks. Thomas nods.

“Of course I do.” Thomas debates the need for the rubber gloves and decides against it. He’d rather not waste them for a bloody nose. “You know what I do for a living.”

Hamilton frowns, but winces when the motion moves his nose. “I don’t know what they teach you at the FBI.”

“Say it a little louder, I don’t think the Schuylers heard you,” Thomas snaps back. Hamilton flinches.

“You brought it up.”

“But I was vague about it.” Thomas grabs everything he needs and kneels in front of Hamilton. “Lower your shirt.”

Hamilton does, revealing the trails of blood still gushing from his nose and a slight flush to his cheeks. Thomas presses a handful of gauze to Hamilton’s face and the shorter man tilts his head back with the pressure. Thomas frowns.

“Head _forward_ ,” he says, slipping a hand behind Hamilton’s head and tipping his face forward. The flush on Hamilton’s face deepens. Thomas suddenly remembers the _last_ time he had a hand in Hamilton’s hair and feels a blush come to his face too. They sit in awkward silence for a minute. Thomas coughs.

‘Uh, sorry about…” he trails, feeling the silken strands between his fingers.

“About what?” Hamilton asks, through the look on his face says he knows _exactly_ what Thomas is talking about. Thomas drums his fingers on the back of Hamilton’s scalp as an answer before removing his hand entirely.

“I didn’t know that, uh, you’d…”

“Don’t know how you would,” Hamilton says quickly and Thomas nods.

“Obviously, no way, it was just a guess,” Thomas says just as fast.

“Took me by surprise, is all.”

“Nothing meant by it.”

“Absolutely not.”

Silence falls again. Thomas can feel the blood seep through the first layer of gauze and starts to prepare another press in his lap. He doesn’t remove the hand from Hamilton’s face though. Thomas looks around the bathroom, hoping to find anything to comment on but Hamilton beats him to it.

“Can I...ask you a question?” He says, hesitantly. Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“You just did.” Thomas smirks. Hamilton flips him off but continues:

“The man you lost...what was he like?”

Thomas blinks, caught completely off guard by the question. “Why?” He manages to stutter out. Hamilton looks at the shower curtain.

“Well, if he died trying to help a friend of mine I’d like to know who he was,” Hamilton explains. “Everyone deserves to be remembered.”

“So you decide that _now_ is the best time to ask,” Thomas drawls. Hamilton winces, crosses his arms.

“You weren’t saying anything and I- you know what? Nevermind. Forget I asked.”

Thomas grits his jaw and looks down. There’s a beat of silence as Thomas changes out the soaked gauze with a new bunch. Thomas lets out a breath.

“His name is- _was_ Benjamin Franklin.” Thomas doesn’t look up, choosing to stare directly at Hamilton’s stomach, but he feels Hamilton’s gaze snap to him. “But I called him Uncle Ben. He was...he was fifty-eight but knew his way around computers better than anyone I know. Funny as hell, talked almost _exclusively_ in memes. I swear he ran half of reddit himself. Really cared, though. Smart, kind of an asshole, but really gave a damn about everything. He wouldn’t have ever admitted it to you, though.”

“Sounds like a good man,” Hamilton breathes. Thomas nods, feeling his throat start to close up.

“He was. You talked to him, once.” Thomas looks down at his lap and starts to fold another sheet of gauze. “When we were looking for Burr and you took my phone from me? That was Ben on the other side of the line.” Thomas sighs. He can feel the tears starting to come but he tries to stamp them down. Crying, especially in front of Hamilton, is not allowed.

“I met him my first day of work,” Thomas mutters, just loud enough for Hamilton to hear. “Me ‘n James- Lewis, you know him as- and I show up for our first day, fresh out of college and ready to go. We’ve been dreaming of this since high school and here we finally are. We walk up to the receptionist and tell her our names. She gives James his ID, but says I’m not in her system. I’m confused, I have the job offer letter in my pocket and I show it to her. She points me in the direction of security and James to where he needs to go.

“Over the course of the morning, I get shuffled between so many different offices and people, but no one can explain what’s happened to my information. Every time I get sent to another office, I get a little more scared that something’s gone wrong. That they never hired me or they fired me before my first day or I’m just going to walk into an office and they’re going to shoot me or something. By the time I walk into this one HR guy’s office I am dead certain that I am out of a job and they’re going to haul me out of the building when they figure it out.

“But this last guy recognizes me because he did my interview and he’s like ‘no no, you should be okay, I _definitely_ hired you,’ and I’m like ‘oh thank fucking god’ and he’s like ‘there must have been a mistake in putting you in the computer. Here, here’s the office number of the guy you need to talk to,’ and he sends me on my way. I have to walk down into the fucking basement and through these dark hallways but I’m just so grateful and sending thanks to every god I can think off.

“I get to the office and I knock and the guy inside tells me to come in and the first thing I see, _the first thing_ , is a collection of goddamned Furbies on top of a filing cabinet. The guy spins around in his chair like a movie villain, but he’s absolutely covered in Cheetos dust. And he’s got this long silver hair in a ponytail and glasses with the strap around his neck. He looks at me and just grunts like ‘what do you want?’ I tell him the problem and he breaks out into this huge grin.

“‘Thomas Jefferson, right?’” Thomas tries to imitate Ben’s Boston accent. “I nod and he looks at his phone and says ‘damn. Took ‘em five hours to send you down here. Sad part is that’s a record. Fastest it’s ever happened.’ And I just look at him, not understanding and he goes: ‘I erased your files as an experiment. Sorry about any inconvenience, I owe ya one. I’ll put it all back.’” Thomas chuckles to himself. “And it takes me a second, but I just fucking lose it. I’m crying I’m laughing so hard. It’s this huge rush of relief and I can’t even breathe.

“Ben looks at me just so concerned, like this is the first time someone’s broken down laughing, which maybe it was, I dunno how other people reacted to Ben’s ‘experiments.’ He doesn’t know what to say, and I can’t speak, so he leans over to a drawer in his desk and pulls out three bags of Cheetos and offers them to me like it’s going to make me calm down. Which is how I got three free bags of Cheetos from the FBI, but I can’t even take them I’m just...broken. I manage to get under myself under control eventually, and he’s just like ‘are you okay, my dude?’

“And I’m like ‘yeah, yeah man, I’m great. Spent the whole morning thinking I got fired and no one told me, but I’m fantastic.’ Ben looks at me like I’m speaking crazy and he goes ‘why the hell would they fire you before you even started the job?’ and I’m like ‘I don’t know, man. Maybe my father called and told y’all I was gay and that was a dealbreaker.’ And Ben just freezes and for a second I’m scared I said something wrong and he just goes ‘I promise you, no one here gives a shit. No one’ll say anything. If they do, I’ve got a friend who’s a SWAT captain who’ll break their necks for you.’

“Which is how I met Steuben, who got me put on this team with James when my boss wanted to set up another gang-specialized group. Steuben didn’t break necks for me, don’t worry, but he’s got the pride flag hanging up in his office and he’s really chill about it. Anyway, Ben felt bad about what he accidentally put me through so he let me stay in his office the rest of the day and just shot the breeze. Best first day I could have ever had. James had all these orientation meetings and I watched _The Bee Movie_ with Uncle Ben.” Thomas stops, feeling the smile fade as he looks down at the gauze in his hand.

“I’m going to miss him so much,” Thomas mutters. That’s when he feels a warm wetness on his hand and he remembers what he’s doing. He immediately looks up, seeing the gauze in his hand is completely soaked through. “Shit, sorry,” he says, quickly changing it out for the clean pile. He stops when he sees Hamilton’s expression. His eyes are wide, sympathy etched across his face and Thomas swears he can almost see tears. “Hey, man, don’t worry about it. I’m fine,” Thomas reassures, but Hamilton takes his free hand and grabs Thomas’.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and Hamilton means it. Thomas inhales sharply, which turns into a sniffle, which threatens to turn into a sob but Thomas cuts it off there. He squeezes Hamilton’s hand.

“Thank you,” he says. There’s a moment of silence, then Thomas coughs. “Ben showed me the gif of you getting hit by the car.” Hamilton scowls.

“That fucking thing is the best thing that ever happened to John, I swear,” he grumbles. Thomas laughs. He pulls the gauze away from Hamilton’s nose and checks for spots. It’s clean, and Thomas dabs at it a few times.

“Okay, I think your nose is done trying to recreate _The Shining_.” Thomas gathers all the bloodied gauze and starts putting it into a plastic bag.

“The...what?” Hamilton asks. Thomas freezes.

“You’ve never seen _The Shining_?” Thomas asks. Hamilton shakes his head. “Well, first, don’t do that. You could aggravate your nose. Secondly, that is a tragedy and we are going to fix that.”

“We are, are we?” Hamilton asks, eyebrows wiggling. Thomas frowns.

“You and Laurens will fix that,” he amends. Hamilton barks a laugh.

“That’s more like it.” Thomas stands up from the floor to let Hamilton up and the shorter man stands. They awkwardly shuffle around one another as Thomas reorganizes the first-aid kit and tosses the bag of gauze into the trash. Hamilton puts a hand on the doorknob, but stops. He looks back at Thomas- who is now washing the blood off his hands- the urge to ask another question painted across the Caribbean’s face. Thomas sighs, looking at him in the mirror.

“What is it?” Thomas asks. Hamilton worries his bottom lip, and just when Thomas figure Hamilton isn’t going to ask, he blurts:

“Are you really gay?”

Thomas freezes. _Shit. Shitshitshitshitfuck_. He had come out, hadn’t he, when he’d been telling the story. The water runs over his hands and Thomas’ chest feels like it’s going to burst. He could just deny it, say it was a hypothetical, laugh about it. But Steuben’s voice- _it’s okay Thomas, if they don’t like it it’s their problem_ \- echoes in his head and he decides _fuck it_. Hamilton’s friends with Laurens, Lafayette and Peggy, so there’s no big risk, right?

The pounding in Thomas’ ears says otherwise as he struggles to form the admission. Hamilton is waiting, the silence stretching on before Thomas takes a breath, looks at himself in the mirror and starts scrubbing his hands again.

“Yeah,” he says. He swallows, like he can take the word back but now it hangs in the small space between them. Steeling himself, Thomas looks at Hamilton’s face. There’s a hint of a smile there, but Hamilton just shrugs.

“Cool, man,” and before Thomas can say anything Hamilton dashes out of the bathroom. Thomas feels his legs almost collapse underneath him, but he holds himself up and leans against the mirror. _Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?_ He asks himself. _Friedrich didn’t even have to do it for you this time_.

It takes Thomas a minute to collect himself, his emotions a tumbling ball in his stomach after what just happened. When he walks back out into the living room, the Twister mat is gone, _thank god_. The couch has been pushed back to the wall and everyone is sitting in a circle on the carpet. Lafayette perks up when they seem him reemerge.

“Clark! Come! We were waiting for you!” Lafayette pats the empty spot next to them. Thomas makes his way back over, confusion growing until he spots the wine bottle lying in the center of the circle.

“...spin the bottle.” Thomas drawls. “Are you serious?” Everyone nods.

“Deadly,” Laurens says. Thomas shakes his head, eyeing the bottle again.

“This means that there’s no wine, is there?” Thomas asks. Lafayette chuckles.

“No, _merci_. All three bottles are already empty.”

“Why do we need three bottles?” Thomas asks, growing concerned. He eyes the spot Lafayette left for him, debating if he _really_ wants to sit down or not.

“Someone inevitably breaks the first two,” Eliza explains. Thomas sighs.

“You are all children,” he says, but sits down anyway. Hamilton is to his left, apparently haven chosen to spend the rest of the night in a blood soaked shirt, and Lafayette to his right.

“Hey,” Laurens protests. “Children play spin the bottle. _We_ play truth or dare spin the bottle.”

Thomas groans, putting his face in his hands. “I was wrong. Y’all are middle schoolers.”

“Drunk middle schoolers!” Peggy exclaims, waving a bottle in zir hand.

“But why the bottle?” Thomas asks.

“So, statistically, everyone gets about the same number of turns,” Angelica says.

“ _Masochistic,_ drunk middle schoolers then,” Thomas grumbles.

“Enough stalling!” Philip shouts. His face is flushed and he’s having trouble sitting up straight. _How much has he had tonight?_ Thomas wonders, but before he can ask Philip reaches for the bottle and spins it. Or rather, he tries. His hands don’t seem to be working the way he wants them to and it takes him multiple tries to get it right. But get it right he does and the neck of the bottle rotates until…

 _God-fucking-damnnit why God do you do these things to me_? Thomas wonders, staring down the mouth of the bottle. Philip grins.

“Truf or dare, Will?” He slurs. In that moment, Thomas realizes he has two very shitty options. He wouldn’t put it past them to try and make him do something illegal. But truth is risky too. Praying the question isn’t ‘do you work for the FBI?’ Thomas bites the bullet and chooses truth. Philip hums to himself, tapping his chin with his fingers. Thomas’ anxiety grows by the second and he’s thinking about throwing himself out of a window when Philip opens his mouth.

“Are you in- in love with Lewis?” He asks. Thomas lets out an internal breath. That’s a safe question, or so he thinks. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes are on him, expectant. He feels like he’s on _Who Wants To Be a Millionaire_ and he’s hit the million-dollar question. Half look hopeful, half are glaring but Hamilton has this odd expression that Thomas can’t quite read. Hamilton catches him looking and ducks his head, giving Philip a death glare. Thomas clears his throat.

“No, absolutely not,” he says dismissively. Eliza lets out a breath, one hand pressed against her heart. Laurens bounces in his seat and Philip grins at him. Hamilton looks up at him slowly, an odd twinkle in his eyes. The others share an excited look, but Thomas is hopelessly confused. He feels like he’s the only one not in on the joke. “What on earth made you think that?”

“Not your turn!” Philip shouts, completely unaware of his volume in his drunk state.

“It _is_ his turn,” Angelica says. “Spin the thing, Clark. Get your victim.”

Thomas grabs the two ends of the bottle, looking between the members of the circle, hoping for some kind of hint to the intention behind Philip’s question. He flicks it hard enough to spin for a few seconds before landing on Laurens. Thomas grins. Laurens, the ringleader of this whole bullshit, at his mercy. He starts wording the question in his mind: how to get the most information from a single turn, and he’s almost got it-

“Dare.” Laurens smirks, looking pleased with himself. Thomas’ eye twitches. _Of course. Dare. Smart bastard. Probably knows I won’t ask him to do anything outrageous or illegal._ _Fine._

“I dare you to spend the rest of this game upside down,” Thomas says. It’s an old fallback from his own childhood, a quick way to put a timer on the game.

“How?” Laurens asks. “Want me to do a handstand? I have no balance.”

“Grab a chair and sit upside down,” Peggy suggests. Laurens thinks about it, shrugs and does exactly that, pulling a chair from the dining table and swinging his legs up and over the back. His head dangles by the floor, curly hair pooling on the ground below him.

“Someone hand me the bottle, I can’t reach properly.” Laurens spins, Peggy has to join him upside down. Eliza does her best belly-dance on the table and Lafayette admits that once, when a girl asked them to dance, they tripped over their feet and got laughed out of the party. Angelica chugs a mixture of beer, hot sauce and pickle juice Laf makes for her.

And so the game goes on. Thomas learns his lesson and takes a dare his second go-around, then immediately regrets it when Eliza makes him a similar drink as Angelica’s, but with more beer. The buzz from earlier _had_ been wearing off, but it comes back in full force as Thomas chokes the connection down.

“Did you put salt in this?” He asks, feeling like he’s going to be sick.

“Ayep!” Eliza grins. “And you should be thankful that drink is all I made you do.”

Thomas wants to question what she means, but Laurens gives her a glare and she shrugs. Thomas makes Lafayette join the two already upside down, the fact both Peggy and Laurens have lasted as long as they have is making him angry. Lauren’s face is a bright pink and Peggy keeps complaining of the effort required to keep zirself in position.

And then Lafayette’s spin lands on Hamilton.

Hamilton’s eyes light up. He’s been sitting in the circle without a turn for too long, if his incessant griping is anything to go by. He bounces in place and Thomas can’t believe _anyone_ would be excited to have a turn in this damned game. “Dare!” He exclaims before Lafayette can even ask the prerequisite question. Lafayette and Laurens share a wicked upside-down grin and Hamilton’s smile falls.

“I dare you…” Lafayette pauses, everyone in the circle catching on. Only Eliza doesn’t look happy about whatever Lafayette is about to say and Thomas once again feels like he’s missing out on an inside joke. It looks like Hamilton is feeling the same way from how he starts glancing around the circle suspiciously. Lafayette smirks. “I dare you to kiss Clark.”

Both Thomas and Hamilton freeze, Thomas suddenly highly aware of how close the shorter man is to him physically. They look at each other, Hamilton’s expression shocked, perhaps a little scared, and is that...no, it can't be hopeful. Thomas feels his automatic response kick in and the disgust spread across his face. Almost immediately, Hamilton’s face collapses into a similar look and Thomas justifies the earlier expression as Hamilton simply not knowing how to properly express his revulsion at the idea.

 _Yeah, that's gotta be it_ , Thomas thinks to himself. _No other reason, don't think about it don't think about it_. Thomas stands, practically jumping away from Hamilton in his desire to put as much space between Hamilton and himself as possible, trying to leave behind the little portion of himself that says _maybe I should let him kiss me_.

“Ha ha, guys,” Thomas says. He goes to cross his arms but just ends up sort of holding himself instead. “Don'tcha think that's something you should run by _me_ first?” Laurens shrugs as best he can upside down.

“It's the game, Clark.”

“If he doesn't want to I'm not doing it,” Hamilton protests. The wording of the protest confuses Thomas. _It doesn't sound like he doesn't want to_.

“ _¡Podría ser tu única oportunidad!_ ” Laurens sings. Hamilton scowls.

“I said not if he’s not cool with it,” Hamilton insists. Philip and Peggy both deflate, but Laurens doesn't give up. He looks at Thomas, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead.

“Well, what do you say Clark?”

Silence descends, every eye on Thomas. He bites his lip, letting his gaze travel down to Hamilton, who is still sitting cross-legged on the floor. Hamilton looks up at him, jaw clenched and expression near unreadable. Thomas can see he's trying so hard to stay neutral but there's a conflict playing out under Hamilton’s features. There's yet another flash of what Thomas can only call hope and he can't silence the voice in his head that asks:

 _Does Hamilton_ want _to kiss me?_

_More importantly, do I want to kiss him?_

The fact that not every atom in Thomas’ body screams no at the thought terrifies him.

When Thomas opens his mouth he's not sure what he's going to say even as his mouth starts forming the first word. “I-”

_Knock knock knock._

The pounding at the front door startles everyone, Eliza just about jumping out of her skin and Angelica spills a little beer on her shirt. The pounding continues and Thomas finds himself able to breathe again.

“I'll get it,” he says, finally breaking eye contact with Hamilton and crossing to the door. He hears Hamilton hiss something in Spanish and Laurens reply, but Thomas is too busy struggling with the knowledge that _he might have said yes_ to pay any attention. Fighting down the blush threatening to rise, Thomas throws open the door.

“Schuyler residence, how can I-” Thomas’ words die in his throat when he takes in the sight of the man in front of him. He _huge,_ a hulking sort of man with dark skin and broad shoulders. But none of the man’s threatening demeanor or build is what chills Thomas to the bone. It's what he's wearing:

A bright red jacket with a little crown stitched on the right breast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hahahahahahahahahaha_
> 
> *Backflips out of the room*
> 
> See you Saturday


	23. Peggy Is The Most Badass And Saves The Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love that story I don't care if it's true or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Transphobic and homophobic language

Thomas slams the door shut, spins around and throws his back against it. Every head snaps to look at him. “Redcoats,” he gasps, “Redcoat at the door.”

“Burr and Theo!” Peggy breathes. In a flash, ze’s running for the staircase, vanishing behind it.

“Is there another way out of this apartment?” Laurens asks, flipping himself upright again. Angelica nods.

“Fire escape. But it’s rickety and they’ll see us moving.”

The Redcoat pounds on the door again and Thomas braces himself as best he can. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Thomas tries to fish his phone out of his pocket but when he reaches in, it’s not there. _What the hell?_ Thomas can feel his breathing speed up. _No, stay calm. You probably just put it somewhere for Twister_.

“Guns?” Lafayette asks. Again, Angelica nods.

“Upstairs.”

“Has anyone-” he tries to speak, but the Redcoat somehow manages to cut him off.

“Laf, what the hell?” The voice is deep and carries through the door easily. All three lieutenants freeze, share a look and then Hamilton lets out a breath and the other two relax.

“What’s going on?” Burr comes running into the living room, Theodosia just behind. Hamilton waves in his direction.

“False alarm. Everything’s fine.” Hamilton approaches the door, hands stuck in his pockets.

“ _Everything’s fine?_ ” Thomas hisses. Hamilton nods. He pushes Thomas away from the door and swings it open.

“Yo, Herc, man, what are you doing here?” Hamilton asks. Thomas watches, feeling like a wound spring, as Hamilton casually leans against the doorframe and talks to the hulking Redcoat. “Thought you said you couldn’t make it!”

“I couldn’t,” Herc grunts. “But no one was answering their phone and you got a problem.”

“A problem?” Hamilton frowns. Herc nods.

“Reynolds, Seabury and a whole squad of other guys are on their way here now,” Herc says. Hamilton straightens, and suddenly the entire apartment is on alert again.

“You can’t be serious!” Lafayette exclaims. Herc looks at the Frenchman, confusion on his face as he glances back and forth between them and Thomas. Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“Lafayette-” he points at the lieutenant, still sideways on their chair, “-Will Clark.” Hamilton points at Thomas.

“Who is this, Hamilton?” Thomas motions to Herc, feeling his heartbeat hammer through his chest.

“Later,” Hamilton grunts. “How far away are they?” He asks Herc.

“Not far. They’re coming to try and get information on Burr and his girl.” Herc glances around the apartment. “All of you in once place, someone’ll squeal- they’re right there.”

“Hello Mr. Mulligan,” Burr says, amicably. Mulligan sighs, fists clenching. He looks back at Hamilton.

“B.T. said they were at _Abigail’s!_ ”

“They _were_ ,’ Hamilton counters, “then Clark and Angelica wanted to move them.”

“Well now we’re fucked!” Mulligan exclaims.

“No, we know they’re coming,” Angelica counters. “We have guns. We can handle this.” Mulligan shakes his head.

“They’re bringing enough to outnumber us all. Fighting means we all die.”

“We hide then,” Peggy says. Ze grabs Burr and Theo’s wrists and pulls them up the stairs.

“Where?” Mulligan calls. Eliza, already heading up the stairs after the trio turns.

“Guest room closet’s got a fake back. There’s a whole panic room back there.”

“Of course there is,” Mulligan breathes. He looks around the apartment at everyone standing still. “You heard the people, up the stairs. We hide.”

Hamilton nods, and starts jogging up the stairs. Mulligan and the rest follow, Thomas hanging behind long enough to shut the door and slide every lock home. It probably won’t do much, he knows, but it’s something. Thomas is the last one up the stairs and into the bedroom. Mulligan disappears into a black hole that is the back of the closet, Hamilton holding open what appears to be a door of some sort.

“In, Clark,” Hamilton motions to where Mulligan had just gone. Thomas shakes his head, grabbing the door.

“You first,” he counters. Hamilton frowns.

“Why?” He shoots back.

“Because I said so, now get in.”

“What does it matter if I get in first or you?” Hamilton asks.

“It doesn’t, now get in,” Thomas insists.

“If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be arguing, so get the fuck in there!”

“Hamilton, just go.”

“You first.”

“I swear to god,” Thomas breathes. “Get in. I’m going to be closest to the door.”

“Why?” Hamilton asks. Thomas inhales sharply.

“So that, if worst comes to worst, I can protect you all.”

Hamilton starts, blinking in shock. “ _Protect_ us? If they were to find us, what are you going to do? Get shot _first?_ ”

“Hamilton, it is literally my _job_ to put myself between you-” Thomas points at the shorter man. “- and harm’s way.” He points in the direction of the staircase. “So get in the damn closet.” Thomas points into the panic room, glaring at Hamilton the whole while. Hamilton opens his mouth to argue, but Thomas can practically _feel_ time running out. So, letting out a noise of exasperation, he grabs Hamilton by the shoulder and forcibly _shoves_ him into the closet.

Thomas is inside the panic room a second later, letting the door slide closed behind him. The others are already gathered, some sitting on the floor. It’s cramped, but not claustrophobically.  Hamilton glares at Thomas, rubbing his arm where Thomas had grabbed him. Muttering something in Spanish, he crosses the room to Laurens. They strike up a muttered conversation, and Thomas glances around. Mulligan has already sat down on the ground, drawing his jacket around his large frame.

“If everyone’s done arguing about bullshit,” Burr breaks the silence, “I would like to remind you all that we left my daughter _downstairs_.” His voice sounds calm, but Burr looks about ready to kill the next person who speaks. Thomas’ breath catches in his throat.

“Fuck!” he mutters. Thomas slides open the door and moves to leave, to go retrieve Teddy, but Peggy stops him.

“Wait!” Ze calls, coming up beside him and slipping out the door. “I’ll go.”

“No, Peggy, get in the-”

“It’s my apartment, I know where she is, if they see me, it won’t be as suspicious.” Peggy rattles this off like ze had a million years to think about it. “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.” Before Thomas can stop zir, Peggy is running out of the room and out of his sight.

Thomas lets the door slide shut again, kicking himself. Silence descends on the room, everyone looking at each other awkwardly. Philip seems to have sobered up some, though his face is still as red as a tomato. Thomas plants his back against the door and lets himself slide down it.

 _God, let Peggy return soon,_ he prays. He catches Mulligan’s eye. The larger man clears his throat and holds out a hand.

“Hercules Mulligan,” he says. Thomas takes it, shakes it firmly. Mulligan’s handshake is just right, Thomas thinks.

“Will Clark,” he replies, voice hushed. Mulligan nods.

“Well, if we die today, know it was good meeting you.”

“You too,” is all Thomas can think to say. Silence returns, the only break from it is Laurens’ and Hamilton’s Spanish mutterings. Eliza sits in Angelica’s lap, the sisters holding each other tightly. Lafayette leans against the wall, their eyes downcast. Thomas realizes he’s counting his breaths in his head, but keeps doing it, if just to fill his thoughts. In, _one_ , out, _two_ , in, _three_ , out, _four_ , in-

_SLAM_

Thomas jumps, standing up and away from the door. Everyone else looks up. Fear is painted across Eliza’s face, but everyone else seems to hold it back.

_SLAM_

“Peggy and Teddy,” Hamilton breathes.

_SLAM SLAM_

_CRASH_

The sound of wood hitting the floor churns Thomas’ stomach. Peggy has to be right outside the closet door, has to be-

“Well, what do we have here?” Reynolds’ voice booms. “A Schuyler slut and a baby.”

Thomas’ breath gets stuck in his throat. Before he can act, both Angelica and Hamilton are beside him, scrabbling over the little divot in the door to slide it open. Their struggle is silent, both huffing and glaring at each other. Thomas dives between them, forcing them away from the door and each other. He holds his hands out towards them, creating space between them and the door. Then, slowly, Thomas taps himself twice on the chest. He watches both of their faces contort in understanding, then anger, but Thomas doesn’t give them a chance to protest. He slides open the door and slips out backwards.

He goes to shut to door on them, but a set of caramel fingers stick themselves in the way. Hamilton shoves his way out of the closet, Thomas too afraid to make noise to fight back. The shorter man gets up close to Thomas, even going as far to get up on his toes.

“I know where the weapons are, you’re unarmed. _Get in the closet_ ,” he hisses. Thomas smirks, taking a step back.

“Who says I’m unarmed?” He asks, reaching up the back of his shirt and pulling out his pistol. Hamilton’s eyes go wide.

“You’ve had that on you this entire time?” he breathes, voice just below a murmur. Thomas nods. “ _You played Twister with a gun?!_ ” Thomas winces, nodding again.

“You mean to tell me that’s _your_ kid?” Reynolds says. Thomas stiffens, glancing at the bedroom door.

 _Closet. Now_ , he mouths, and turns before Hamilton can argue. Thomas, stepping silently, crosses the room, pushes the door open and creeps out onto the second floor landing. As he gets closer to the staircase, Thomas drops to his knees so he’s covered by the banister. He holds his pistol to his chest and peeks out over the rail.

“Yep. Had her while we were away,” Peggy lies. In zir arms is a sleeping Teddy, and ze’s glaring at the hulking figure of Reynolds. There are eleven other men in red coats in the apartment, all but one surrounding Peggy in the center of the living room. The last one leans against the dining room table, watching everything with barely interested eyes. Thomas sits back down before any of them spot him, listening hard.

“You can’t expect me to believe that,” Reynolds spits.

“Believe it or not, it’s true,” Peggy counters.

“Look _slut_ ,” Reynolds growls. “We were told you were having a party for that tranny. Where is everyone?”

“First, don’t you fucking _dare_ call Philip that,” Peggy spits. “Secondly, the party’s over. Everyone’s gone home.”

“Bullshit,” someone says. There’s a mutter of agreement among the redcoats. “We didn’t see anyone leave.”

“Not my fault you’re unobservant,” Peggy shoots back. Thomas peeks over again, but nobody’s moved. There’s a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, and Thomas sits back down, snapping his head in that direction. There, next the banister on the other side of the stairs, is Hamilton.

The man grins at him, flashes his pistol so Thomas can see, then glances over the railing. When Hamilton squats back down, Thomas is glaring at him with wide eyes.

 _What are you doing?_ Thomas mouths.

 _Backup_ , Hamilton replies, his mouth over exaggerating the word so Thomas can understand. Thomas shakes his head.

 _Go back_.

 _No_ , is Hamilton’s response.

“Even your sisters left?” Reynolds asks.

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of something shattering. Thomas and Hamilton both glance over. Reynolds stands by a broken vase, glaring at Peggy. Teddy stirs in zir arms, but Peggy doesn’t react to either thing.

“Okay, now. You better start telling me the goddamned truth _right now_ ,” Reynolds growls. Peggy shifts zir weight, pulling Teddy’s head up closer to zir shoulder. Thomas and Hamilton both retreat again, leaning as close as they dare to the stairs to listen.

“I did. They’re all gone. They walked right down the fire escape and I bet they’re all halfway to Washington right _now_.” Peggy sounds confident, zir voice steady despite the complete lie. “Gone to get backup, so we can kick your asses.”

There’s another muttering from the group, one much more concerned this time. Even Reynolds pauses, and Thomas can’t believe that the Redcoats are buying it. Peggy might actually pull this off!

“That’s all very well and good,” comes another voice, just as calm and collected as Peggy’s, “I suppose they left you to care for the child then?”

“Yep, who better than her bubba?” Peggy replied. The cool voice hums. Thomas peeks over the railing. The man by the table is standing now, making his way slowly to the circle of Redcoats. He chuckles.

“That’s just as well for us. Two Schuylers in our custody should make the other two talk. Reynolds, Eacker.” Thomas peeks over again to see Reynolds and another man approach Peggy. Ze takes a step back.

“If you think I’ll go quietly with you, you’re fucking mistaken,” ze challenges.

“Ah, come on pretty lady,” Reynolds taunts, “I’ll carry you out like a-” Reynolds grunts, doubling over. Peggy steps back, lowering zir knee from where ze had slammed into the man’s stomach.

“I am no lady,” ze says. Reynolds glares up at zir, reaches behind him and suddenly there’s a gun being pressed against Peggy’s forehead. Thomas stifles a gasp, his hand tightening around the handle of his gun.

“What?” Hamilton breathes. Thomas grits his jaw, trying to think, trying to find a way out of this for everyone.

“You bitch,” Reynolds growls.

“James, let’s not be hasty,” the calm man says.

“Fuck this, Sam. We only need the kid.” Reynolds rolls his head on his shoulders. Peggy looks back at him, in zir eyes is a challenge.

“You shoot me, you will have the _entire_ wrath of the Schuyler family come down on you,” ze threatens. Reynolds smirks.

“I can handle two whores, some fags and a tranny,” he spits. Reynolds cocks the gun with a _click_. Thomas goes to stand, an idea forming in his head, but Hamilton is faster. The other man pops up from behind his cover and starts firing round after round. The gunshots send Thomas’ ears ringing.

“Goddamnit, Hamilton!” He shouts, fumbling the safety on his gun off. Thomas aims at the man closest to him, and squeezes the trigger. The gun jumps in his hand as the Redcoats scatter. Peggy dances away from Reynolds before he can grab zir, and ze takes off up the stairs.

“Like hell I’m letting zir get shot,” Hamilton counters. Thomas growls, but keeps firing. He aims for legs, arms, non-lethal disabling shots. The Redcoats all dive for cover, using the table, couch and whatever they can. A few pull out their own weapons and start firing back. Peggy ducks zir head and pulls Teddy as close to zir chest as ze can. Ze hits the top of the stairs and takes off down the hallway.

Thomas is slow, measured in his shots. He can’t afford to make a mistake. Hamilton, on the other hand, is firing wildly, seemingly at whatever he wants to. A few of his shots, possibly meant for Reynolds, hit and shatter the tv. Thomas winces as Hamilton shatters another vase.

A bullet whizzes past Thomas’ head and he ducks, diving back behind the banister for cover. Bullets slam into the Plexiglas, but it doesn’t break. Thomas takes a moment to count his bullets, he’s probably got three shots left. Hamilton just keeps going, only stopping to duck down, pull an extra ammo clip from his belt and reload. Then the shorter man is back on his feet and firing. Thomas sends a prayer to whoever is listening and pops back up himself.

As he tries to line up a shot at one of the men’s legs, Thomas sees what Hamilton is doing. Or rather, trying to do, because he’s failing at it spectacularly. Hamilton unloads rounds aimed at the Eacker fellow’s head, but none of them hit their mark.

“Legs and bodies, Hamilton!” He shouts, keeping his eyes locked on his target.

“What?” Hamilton calls back. Thomas pulls the trigger, and finally he lands a hit. The man cries out in pain and collapses against the wall.

“Headshots aren’t accurate. Bodies and legs!” He replies. Hamilton pauses in his shooting.

“You’re criticizing my shooting _now_?” He shrieks. Thomas lines up another shot and goes for it, cursing mentally when he misses.

“If you want to be effective and _not die_ , I suggest aiming for bodies and legs.” Thomas has one shot left, at best. He readjusts for his missed shot, his hands shaking from firing so much.

“I can’t believe you wou- _ack_ ,” Hamilton cries out in pain and hits the floor. Thomas jerks his head to the side, unintentionally firing his last bullet into a wall. There’s blood splattered across the carpet and Hamilton isn’t moving.

“Hamilton!” Thomas sprints across the stairway, hearing bullets fly around him. He drops to his knees, making double sure his head is below the railing. Thomas puts his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, turning the man onto his back, fearing the worst. Hamilton’s left shoulder is soaked in blood, it’s soaking into the carpet at an alarming rate. Hamilton’s face is frozen in a grimace of pain and for a second Thomas thinks Hamilton is already dead.

 _I didn’t kiss him_ is the odd thought that flashes through Thomas’ head.

But Hamilton groans a second later, and Thomas lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The man on the ground blinks his eyes open, gaze locking on Thomas.

“You distracted me!” He hisses. Thomas ignores him. There will be time to argue later.

“Did it go through?” Thomas asks, trying to pull Hamilton’s shirt from the wound. “The bullet, did it go through you or get stuck?” He answers Hamilton’s unasked question.

“How am I supposed to know?!” Hamilton shoots back. Thomas bites his lip, and eyes Hamilton’s shirt collar. It’s already coated in blood from his nose and stiff. From the bottom it is. He steps over Hamilton, keeping his head down and kneels in back down.

“I’m going to slide my hands under your shirt, okay?” He warns. Before Hamilton can respond, Thomas shoves his hand up Hamilton’s shirt. Without looking at the other man, Thomas searches Hamilton’s shoulder until he finds what feels like the wound.

“Wha- _shit!_ ” Hamilton cries as Thomas’ fingertips scrape against what feels like torn flesh. He nods to himself, then slides his other hand up Hamilton’s shirt and under his shoulder. Hand splayed across Hamilton’s back, he can’t find anything that _feels_ like an exit wound. Exits wounds mean more blood, but less trauma. If the bullet is still inside Hamilton, then the man has more of a chance to survive to get to a doctor, but-

Then Thomas hears footsteps on the stairs and suddenly remembers that they’re not alone, and the men who shot Hamilton are still here. With guns. On their way up the stairs to where they are. Thomas feels Hamilton bleed from under his hand and he presses down, slipping the other hand out and adding to the pressure.

The footsteps are getting closer, and Thomas can hear them talking to one another. He keeps his eyes glued to Hamilton’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to see how close the Redcoats are. Hamilton is squirming under Thomas’ hand, cursing quietly at the pain. Hamilton’s gun is gone, possibly dropped over the banister, but is nowhere to be found.

 _This is where I die_ , Thomas realizes. _Right here, right now, I am about to die._

The Redcoats are getting closer. Thomas presses down on Hamilton’s shoulder harder. He has no idea if Hamilton has drawn the same conclusions about their survival chances, but he doesn’t look at his face. There’s nothing Thomas can do to save either of them. He shuts his eyes tight.

“Almighty God,” Thomas mutters under his breath, “look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Are you praying?” Hamilton chokes out. Thomas nods, continuing his prayer through clenched teeth.

“Almighty God, look on this your servant-” Thomas swallows, throat going dry. “-lying in great weakness, and comfort him-” he makes the decision to look up when the Redcoats get here. Make them watch him die. “-with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection-” The footsteps are getting louder, moving faster and faster. “-Of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Thomas takes a breath to start over again, but the footsteps are almost on him now, thundering from the direction of the… the hallway?

Thomas opens his eyes just in time to see Peggy rocket out of the hallway, an automatic rifle on zir hip. Angelica, Laurens and Lafayette are on zir heels, all carrying their own weapons.

“Backup’s here, motherfuckers!” Peggy screams, letting rip and showering bullets down the stairs. Angelica stops at the top of the stairs beside zir, shotgun in her hands and death in her eyes. Laurens and Lafayette both take up positions on either side of the two siblings, pistols flashing.

A series of screams and curses come from downstairs, but Thomas lets out a breath of relief. His head drops, and he mutters another prayer, but one of thanks. The sheer number of gunshots are sending his ears ringing, and he feels like he’s ready to pass out, but he stays up, pressing his hands into Hamilton's shoulder.

Someone slams a door and the gunshots stop. For a second, there is only heavy breathing and the high-pitched ringing in Thomas’ ears. Then Peggy whoops, dropping zir weapon and pulling zir sister into a crushing hug.

“Fuck _yeah!_ ” Laurens yells. “ _Suck it!”_

“Is everyone okay?” Eliza pokes her head out of the hallway cautiously. Angelica nods and smiles, Peggy finally disengaging and rushing down the stairs. Lafayette follows, pistols still locked and ready to fire.

“Uh… did you forget about me?” Hamilton grunts out. “I got _shot!_ ”

Laurens looks over, sees Thomas putting pressure on Hamilton’s shoulder and the indignant expression on the Caribbean’s face, and snorts. “You’re fine.”

“I’ve been _shot_ , John Laurens,” Hamilton hisses. He tries to sit up, only to be pushed back down by Thomas.

“Don’t move, idiot,” Thomas admonishes. “You don’t want to make it worse, do you?” Hamilton glares up at Thomas.

“Maybe I do, Clark. Maybe I _want_ to die now that I owe you.”

“For what?”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, motions to where Thomas is still holding his shoulder down, and throws his head back onto the floor.

“We got a live one!” Peggy sings from downstairs.

“Kill him,” Laurens says.

“Keep him,” Angelica says at the same time.

“I vote keep,” Lafayette chimes in.

“Keep,” Eliza shouts, from where she’s disappeared back into the guest room.

“Kill,” Peggy counters.

“Kill the fucker,” Hamilton calls, pain in his voice. There’s a beat of silence, then-

“Clark,” Angelica barks. Thomas jumps, his body jerking awkwardly to keep pressure on Hamilton’s wound. “Kill or keep. Up to you.”

 _That’s not really a choice_ , Thomas thinks. “Keep,” he replies. Angelica nods as Hamilton groans.

“Mr. Goody-two-shoes, are we?” Hamilton mutters. Thomas presses a little harder and Hamilton groans.

“Aren’t you lucky,” Peggy is saying. “You get to hang out with me and my friends for a while. Up you get, now.”

“Does anyone know where my phone is?” Thomas asks, suddenly remembering it’s MIA. Hamilton mutters something in response. “What?”

“My back pocket,” Hamilton admits. Thomas blinks.

“Why do you-”

“Stole it for fun,” Hamilton grumbles. Thomas stares, feeling anger start to crawl across his face. “I was going to give it back!” Hamilton protests. “I don’t even know your passcode.” Thomas scowls. Before he can think about what he’s about to do, Thomas takes one of his hands away from Hamilton’s shoulder to slide it under the man’s ass and pull his phone from Hamilton’s pocket.

Thomas looks at it, lips pursed as he thinks about all the backup he could have called and all the lives he could have saved with this thing. “How many are dead?” he asks, tersely.

“Uh… _un, du, trois…_ ” Lafayette trails, counting to themself. “Six? Seven. Definitely seven. Reynolds and Seabury both got away.”

“Of course they did. Life can’t ever be that convenient,” Angelica says. Thomas wants to punch Hamilton in the throat. Seven lives. Seven lives lost because Hamilton stole his fucking phone. _They might have still died,_ Thomas reluctantly thinks. _Just would have been shot by cops and not gangsters_. And the leaders got away. He tries to breathe deep. It’s over now, people are dead and Thomas has got to deal with this.

Angelica is still talking, giving orders for clean-up. She looks back at Thomas and Hamilton. “You two okay?” She asks. “Besides Alexander being shot,” she adds before Hamilton can speak.

“I’m fine,” Thomas says. He hesitates, then looks up at Angelica. “No one tells Lewis about this.” James finding out Thomas was in a shootout would _not_ help matters.

Both Angelica and Hamilton shoot him an odd look, but Angelica nods. “I’ll tell the others.” Hamilton’s eyes just glitter with some unreadable emotion, and Thomas looks down at him. His hair is fanned out around his face, some of it plastered to his skin with blood. _Blood_ , right. He’s still bleeding, even though Thomas’ hand.

“You and I are going to the hospital,” Thomas says. Hamilton starts, his whole body jerking at the notion.

“No,” Hamilton says. “No hospitals.”

“You need to get this looked at-”

“No hospitals, no doctors, no nothing, you got me?” Hamilton insists. Thomas’ brow furrows.

“Yes hospitals and yes doctors. Hamilton, you’ve been shot!”

“John can take care of me just fine.”

“What if you need surgery?” Thomas challenges. Hamilton shrugs with his good shoulder. “You’d rather lose the arm or die than see a doctor.”

“Hell yeah,” Hamilton spits back. “Fuck hospitals.” Thomas lets out an angry breath, feeling his frustration mount.

“You are going to see a doctor, that’s final,” Thomas says. He picks his head up. “Somebody lend me a car and let me drive Hamilton to a doctor in it.”

“Take mine,” Angelica says. Hamilton’s head shoots up so he can look at her.

“No! I’m not going to see a damn doctor!”

“I’ll pay for it if you’re-”

“Shut your damn mouth Clark,” Hamilton hisses. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“What about an urgent care? _Just_ get an x-ray and see if that bullet did damage to your arm,” Thomas urges. Hamilton looks as if he’s going to argue, the fire building in his eyes but something in them changes, dousing slightly.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “Just the x-ray though.”

Thomas feels like he might cry from relief. _Something_ went right tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who called that it was Herc:
> 
> *inhales*
> 
> Y'all motherfuckers.
> 
> That is all.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> The 'Peggy saves the baby' story is amazing, and I know it's been disputed here and there, but I love it fite me. Look it up if you don't know what I'm talking about


	24. Thomas Is The Best Not-Boyfriend And An Urgent Care Is The Best Place For A First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton drops some backstory, makes a bad choice, then helps Thomas make a better one.

Hamilton holds his shoulder, glaring out the window, as Thomas drives them to the nearest urgent care. Hamilton scowls, muttering angrily about getting ‘dragged to a damn doctor when he _obviously_ doesn’t need one.’ Thomas doesn’t think he can roll his eyes any harder.

“What’s the big deal?” Thomas asks. “If it’s money-”

“I told you to shut up about that,” Hamilton grumbles.

“I thought you just wanted me to shut up in general,” Thomas replies, biting down a harsher retort.

“Well, yeah,” Hamilton drawls. “But especially about the money.”

“Health care’s expensive. If you can’t pay for it, I am-”

“ _I don’t need your damn charity_ ,” Hamilton spits. His head whips around to glare at Thomas, eyes daring him to protest.

“It’s not charity if I bill the agency,” Thomas counters. Hamilton huffs, leaning back into the car seat.

“I don’t want government money.”

Thomas wants to throttle him. “Then what do you want, Hamilton?” He asks, tersely.

“For you to drop me off at home.”

“We’re going to see a doctor, that’s _final_.” Thomas drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He realizes, belatedly, that he’s still hasn’t been cleared to drive. _Too late now_. Hamilton grumbles something inaudible and glares at passing streetlights. Thomas lets the silence sit for a moment, waiting for Hamilton to speak up. But the shorter man never does.

“Seriously, though. What’s your problem?” Thomas asks. “Didn’t you to go a doctor when you broke your nose?”

“When _you_ broke my nose, you mean,” Hamilton grumbles. Thomas takes a deep breath.

“Sure,” he replies, scanning the street ahead.

“You did,” Hamilton insists. “But no. I didn’t see a doctor. John took care of me just fine.”

“John and his half-finished nursing degree,” Thomas reminds him. Hamilton nods.

“He knows first aid. Good enough for me.”

“First aid doesn’t cover _bullets_.” Thomas turns a little sharper than he intended, frustration taking itself out on his driving.

“I don’t like doctors, okay?” Hamilton admits. “They killed my mom.”

Thomas starts. His foot jerks against the pedal and nearly sends them into the car ahead of them. He slams on the break and just manages to keep from a collision.

“Hey! What the fuck?!” Hamilton yells, body thrown forward in the sudden stop. Thomas looks at him, wide-eyed, speechless.

“Your mom?” He asks. Hamilton blinks, suddenly realizing what he said. The shorter man looks away, out the passenger side window, and curls in on himself.

“Yeah. How much farther?” He asks. Thomas frowns, eyes going back to the road.

“Not much longer,” he says. Thomas hesitates, the tension in the car suddenly shifted from anger and into territory Thomas isn’t used to. “Can I ask what happened?”

“Hm?” Hamilton hums, giving Thomas one last chance to back out.

“What happened to your mom?” Out of the corner of Thomas’ eye, he sees Hamilton stiffen, shift a little in his seat and wince as the seat belt rubs against his shoulder.

“She got sick. We both did, actually. I lived, she didn’t.” Hamilton speaks in short bursts, words hollow and bitter.

“That can’t be the doctors’ fault…”

Hamilton snorts. “What is it you said? Health care’s expensive? When your mom has to pick between treating her kid or herself it’s the doctors’ fault for putting her in that situation.”

Silence resumes because Thomas honestly has no fucking idea what to say to that. So he says nothing, lets Hamilton stew in silence until they pull into the urgent care parking lot. Thomas turns off the car, gets out and is honestly surprised to see Hamilton following with little complaint. He holds his hurt shoulder with his opposite hand and glares at Thomas over the hood of the car when he sees Thomas staring.

“What?” Hamilton snaps. It’s gotten dark, but the street lights and lit up urgent care sign leave enough light to see by. Wisps of Hamilton’s hair flutter around his face as he turns and starts to walk towards the building. Thomas has to speed walk to catch up to him.

“Surprised you’re not complaining anymore,” Thomas remarks.

“Too far to walk home and this thing fucking hurts,” Hamilton explains, grumbling. Thomas smiles, satisfied. He holds the door open for Hamilton and follows him inside. The lady at the front desk takes one look at Hamilton’s blood soaked shirt and her eyes go wide. Thomas fishes his badge out of his pocket and shows it to the lady.

“We need an x-ray. The sooner the better, thanks,” he says. The nurse nods, and goes about pulling documents from a drawer.

“Do you just carry that thing everywhere?” Hamilton asks, looking at Thomas’ badge as he pockets it.

“Yeah. Have too, now that I don’t have a place to keep it at.” Thomas replies.

“I can’t believe you played Twister with a gun _and_ your badge,” Hamilton mutters. The nurse shoots Thomas an alarmed look. Thomas smiles at her, and kicks Hamilton in the leg. “Ow! What’d you do that for?” Hamilton spits. Thomas gives him his best ‘shut the fuck up’ look, and turns back to the nurse.

“He’s joking,” Thomas says. The lady doesn’t look like she believes him, but turns to Hamilton anyway. She asks him the basic questions, has him fill out some forms, and it’s not long before she leads them back to an observation room to wait. Hamilton hops up on the padded table and Thomas takes one of the seats in the corner.

Hamilton fidgets with the sheet of parchment paper he’s sitting on, fiddling with the edge until it rips, then making more rips until he’s got a pile of shredded paper on his lap. Thomas can feel his nervous energy from across the room. The sound of tearing paper is starting to drive him a little crazy, but if Hamilton needs to do it, he needs to do it.

The door opens, a man in scrubs sticks his head in. “I heard something about Twister with a gun?” He asks, grinning. Thomas groans, rubbing his face in his hands. _Well, better than dragging this guy into a gang war,_ he thinks.

“Yep,” he breathes. The doctor sighs and shuts the door. He starts to ramble about gun safety, digging in a cabinet with his back to the other two men. Hamilton gives Thomas a confused look. Thomas mouths back ‘go with it.’ Hamilton rolls his eyes, but nods. The doctor turns back around.

“Alright, let me see it,” he says. Hamilton sighs, and does his best to peel off his shirt one-handed. He winces as he’s forced to move his injured arm, taking that sleeve off last. Now that Thomas can see the wound, it’s fairly clean for a bullet wound. It’s closer to the top of Hamilton’s shoulder than Thomas had guessed, farther down his arm too. The doctor gets in close, carefully shining a light and examining by eye.

“The very fact you only felt the need to come here, and didn’t bleed out, are good signs,” the doctor says. Hamilton watches him carefully, not saying a word. “We should get an x-ray though.”

“That’s what I said,” Thomas interjects. The doctor glances at him, and nods.

“And who are you?” He asks.

“The idiot with the gun,” Thomas replies. Hamilton smirks.

“You finally admit you’re an idiot,” Hamilton teases. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Hardy-har-har, who’s the one with a bullet in them?” Thomas asks. Hamilton scowls. The doctor is just as unamused as he calls for a nurse to set up the x-ray machine. While they wait, he runs Hamilton through a series of tests to see what Hamilton can move and feel through his arm. Eventually, the nurse signals that she’s ready.

The doctor leads the Thomas and Hamilton down a hallway and into a secluded room. It’s dark, just a single fluorescent light and the giant x-ray machine. Thomas pays it almost no mind, but the way Hamilton stares at the hulking metal makes Thomas’ chest tight. There’s barely contained fear in the shorter man’s face.

“Alright,” the doctor says, “any piece of clothing with metal needs to come off. There’s a gown on the chair over there.” Hamilton hesitates, unable to tear his gaze away from the machine. Thomas, moving slowly so as not to startle the man, puts a hand on his good shoulder. Hamilton flinches and looks up at him. Thomas paints what he hopes is a reassuring smile on his face.

“It’s okay,” he says. Hamilton’s eyes flick back and forth, as if searching Thomas’ face for something. The man takes a deep breath.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. I’m fine,” he mutters. “Could you… go away?”

Thomas blinks, a little taken aback by Hamilton’s request. He had thought, _felt,_ that Hamilton had wanted someone here, but maybe not. Thomas snatches his hand away and steps back quickly. “Yeah, sure,” Thomas says. “Do you want me to wait in the car, or…”

“You can… do what you want, I…” Hamilton trails, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “No, I just gotta take my pants off,” he explains.

Understanding flashes through Thomas. “Oh, right, okay,” he says, turning quickly around. He has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. As he crosses to the door to slip out, he can hear Hamilton struggling with his belt. Thomas realizes he must be doing it one-handed, it’s taking far too long to just take off a pair of pants.

Suddenly the awkward tension is back and Thomas’ gut twists. Without turning around, he coughs. “So, uh, do you need any help?”

Hamilton freezes, if the sudden absence of noise is any indication. “What?” He squeaks. Thomas shifts in place a little, trying to find a way to relieve the sudden tension in his body.

“You’ve only got one good hand,” he rushes, not sure why he’s speaking so quickly, “do you need help?” The question hangs in the resulting silence, and Thomas kicks himself. _Way to go, you just made him_ more _uncomfortable_.

“Uhhhh, no?” Hamilton’s voice is tight. “I’m, uh, I’m good.”

“Just thought I’d offer.” Thomas practically flees from the room. The moment the door shuts behind him Thomas starts to breathe again. He puts his face in his hands, feeling his face burn.

_What the_ fuck _was that, Thomas?_ He asks himself. _No, seriously. What. The. Fuck? Offering to help him undress, what in the ever loveing fuck? Why? Why did you do that? What possessed you to do that?_

Thomas continues to berate himself, muttering and leaning up against the wall. A passing nurse shoots him a glare, but he’s too busy trying to calm himself again. There’s an odd fluttering in his chest that won’t go away, no matter how many counting breaths he does. Logically, he knows it’s not a panic attack, but it just about feels like one.

At some length, the door to the x-ray room opens and the doctor emerges into the hallway. Hamilton follows a second later, doing a double-take when he sees Thomas still standing there. Thomas comes off the wall, following the other two men back down the hall. Hamilton won’t stop glancing at him, surprise in his eyes.

When they return to the observation room, the doctor says something about waiting for the pictures to develop and leaves them alone. Hamilton, back up on the table, stares at Thomas. Thomas, for his part, can see the millions of questions on the man’s face.

“What?” He asks, trying to be as casual as possible, like he didn’t just offer to help the man take off his pants. _Why the hell can’t I stop fixating on that?_

“You’re still here,” Hamilton says. Thomas nods. Hamilton’s brow furrows slightly. “Why?”

“I’m your ride home, aren’t I?”

Hamilton fidgets with the paper again, twisting his feet in little circles. “You could call someone to come get me. You don’t have to stay.”

Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “Do you not want me to stay?” He asks. Hamilton curls on himself like his stomach hurts and that’s the reason he’s seeing a doctor, not a bullet to the shoulder.

“I mean, _I_ don’t care,” Hamilton stressed. “I just figured _you_ would want to leave, being a busy Agent or whatever.”

“I can leave if you want me to,” Thomas offers. Hamilton frowns like he just ate a lemon.

“I’m just saying you can leave if you want to.” Hamilton kicks his feet in the air, looking anywhere but Thomas.

“And if I want to stay, I can?” Thomas asks. Hamilton starts, eyes glancing up to Thomas’ for a fraction of a second before looking away again.

“I guess.” Hamilton pokes at his injured shoulder, wincing and hissing as he does so. Thomas stifles a sigh.

“Don’t do that,” Thomas commands. Hamilton freezes for a second, then goes back to it. Blood starts dripping down his chest and Thomas rolls his eyes. “See, you made it bleed again.” He glances around, but there’s no paper towels or anything, so he settles for grabbing Hamilton’s ruined shirt. He stands, crossing the room and swats Hamilton’s hand away from his shoulder. Pressing the shirt back to the wound, Thomas feels Hamilton flinch and shudder slightly under his hands. Thomas can feel the goosebumps on his flesh, feel how clammy the other man’s skin feels.

“I can hold it,” Hamilton offers. Thomas shakes his head.

“Don’t trust you to, not after you _just_ aggravated it.”

Hamilton huffs, Thomas can feel the rise and fall of his chest. “Maybe I wouldn’t have if you-” He cuts himself off. Thomas turns his head to look at the man.

“If I what?” He prompts.

“...Would just listen to me for once.”

Thomas hits the cushioned table, the thudding noise deadened somewhat but was still loud enough to make Hamilton jerk back. “Hamilton. I swear to god. Do you want me to leave or not?”

“No!” he blurts. Then his eyes go wide like he hadn’t intended on saying it. He bites into his lip so hard Thomas thinks it’s going to start bleeding too. “I- I mean-”

“That’s all you had to say.” Thomas shakes his head, checking to see if the bleeding’s stopped yet. He reapplies a clean section of shirt, trying not to touch any of the already bloodied parts. _Not that it matters_ , Thomas thinks, _I practically stuck my fingers in the wound earlier._

Hamilton takes a breath, free hand playing with the paper again. He squirms a little as he speaks. “I don’t want you to leave,” he admits, “but you can if you want too. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

Thomas glances at the man; Hamilton’s face is completely flushed, and he’s still fidgeting like he’s on ten cups of caffeine. Thomas rolls his eyes. “I’m not leaving if you don’t want me to,” he says.

Hamilton swallows, and Thomas realizes how physically close they are. “But why? We _hate_ each other.”

Thomas sighs, readjusting his grip on the shirt. Why is his hand so suddenly sweaty? “Well, _I_ figure, after what we’ve been through tonight, you could call us friends.”

“Friends?” Hamilton asks, obviously caught off guard by Thomas’ statement. Thomas nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”

“No! No, friends is… is good.” Hamilton looks away, free hand coming up to twirl his ponytail. “Friends,” he repeats. “Friends.”

Thomas eyes him warily. There’s something in Hamilton’s tone that gives him pause and raises little flags in his head. Not necessarily _warning_ flags, but flags nonetheless. Thomas opens his mouth to speak again when the door opens.

“Well, I’d say you’re one lucky man, Mr. Hamilton,” the doctor says. He stops when he sees what Thomas is doing, eyebrows raising slightly.

“It started bleeding again,” Thomas explains. He leans away from Hamilton, taking the shirt with him and sitting back down. The doctor watches him, almost thoughtfully, then nods.

“That’s fine, as long as you’re not _gushing_ blood...” the doctor trails, eyeing Hamilton’s shoulder. “Anyway, the x-rays show the bullet lodged itself right up against your shoulder blade. But it’s intact, and your nerve function seems to be fine. Honestly, I’d feel comfortable stitching you up, giving you some pain meds and sending you on your way. _After_ we contact the authorities, of course.” The doctor says it so simply, but it makes both men jump.

“How about we _don’t_ do that?” Hamilton asks. The doctor turns from where he’s rifling through a cabinet.

“Do what?”

“ _Any_ of what you just said. How about I just leave instead?” Hamilton hops down from the table, wincing as he jams his hurt arm on the side of the cushioned surface. The doctor blinks, freezing in place as he watches Hamilton rub at his wound.

“Well, I can’t force any treatment on you, but I _do_ need to call the police. You were shot. Gunshot wounds mean the police get involved, _no_ exceptions. But I really do think we should close the wound,” the doctor insists. Hamilton shakes his head, and holds out his good hand to Thomas.

“Shirt, _now_ ,” he commands. Thomas clutches the fabric tighter, glancing between the gangster and the doctor.

“You do need stitches,” Thomas agrees, “but calling the cops isn’t necessary.” Before the doctor can protest, Thomas slips his badge out of his pocket. The doctor eyes it, and Thomas keeps talking. “I swear I’ll deal with it. Just, stitch him up, alright?”

“I don’t _want_ stitches,” Hamilton insists. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“So you want to just go around with a hole in your shoulder?”

“I’ll bandage it up, it’ll heal on it’s own. Give me my shirt.” Hamilton reaches for it, but Thomas holds it out of his grip. The shorter man lunges over Thomas’ lap, but Thomas stands and holds it far above Hamilton’s head. Hamilton jumps a little, wincing each time he hits the floor. “Aw, come on, asshole!”

Thomas lowers the shirt a little, an idea forming in his head. “Grab it with your injured arm and I won’t make you get stitches.”

“Fine,” Hamilton spits. His face screws up in determination, and he reaches up with his bad arm. Or tries to anyway, as his hand starts shaking only part of the way up. Thomas can see the pain take over the expression on Hamilton’s face. He can’t even get his arm to raise past his elbow and Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “Just give me a second,” Hamilton grunts, pressing his good hand to the wound to try and help himself out.

Thomas sighs and pulls the shirt up higher. “Nope, you’re getting stitches.”

“You didn’t give me enough time!” Hamilton exclaims. Thomas rolls his eyes and tosses the shirt into the corner of the room. Before Hamilton run for it, Thomas grabs him by the waist and picks him up. The man is surprisingly light, and lifting him onto the table is easier than it should be. _He should be eating more,_ Thomas thinks. Hamilton struggles to escape Thomas’ grip, but Thomas keeps him in place.

“Stop struggling or they’ll sedate you,” Thomas threatens. He glances at the doctor, who has been watching with wide, hesitant eyes. When he meets Thomas’ gaze, he nods quickly.

“I’ll call a nurse,” he says, reaching for the door. Instantly, Hamilton freezes.

“No!” He says, breathless. Thomas can see the fear buried in his eyes. _I don’t like doctors, okay?_ Hamilton’s admission come back to him, _They killed my mom_. “I’ll get the stitches, just no sedatives.”

“Don’t you want something while I sew you up?” The doctor offers. Hamilton shakes his head wildly.

“No, just fucking do it. And _fast_ ,” Hamilton insists. The doctor hesitates, but collects everything he needs. Hamilton’s breathing picks up as the doctor approaches, his muscles tense under Thomas’ hands.

“Alright, lay down then.” Hamilton complies with the doctor’s request. He’s starting to shake, trembling under where Thomas still holds his good shoulder. The doctor pulls up his rolling chair to Hamilton’s injured side. “You’re going to have to be as still as possible,” the doctor instructs. “Are you sure you don’t want any painkillers?”

“Yes, get on with it,” Hamilton says through clenched teeth. The doctor sighs, glances at Thomas, and starts to work. The moment the needle punctures Hamilton’s skin, the injured man jerks. His free hand flails, grabbing at the air. It finds its’ way to Thomas’ shirt, and Hamilton twists the fabric in his fist. The doctor stops, hands letting go of the needle.

“I can get you some-”

“I don’t want any damn sedatives, _just hurry up_.”

The doctor sighs, then pins Hamilton’s arm with his own to steady the man’s shoulder. He pulls the needle through Hamilton’s skin as fast as possible while still being careful. Hamilton breathes in hisses through his teeth. His hand tightens further in Thomas’ shirt, almost pulling the taller man over.

Thomas, leaning slightly over the examination table, grabs Hamilton’s hand with his free one. He works Hamilton’s hand free from his shirt and instead lets Hamilton hold onto his hand. Hamilton’s grip is excruciatingly tight, and it spasms each time another stitch goes through. The smaller man breaks out into a cold sweat, his breathing shallow and quick.

“Breathe, Hamilton. Deep breaths,” Thomas instructs. Hamilton nods jerkily, gasping slightly as the doctor does something, Thomas doesn’t want to look. Hamilton does though, and blanches. Thomas squeezes his hand. “Look at me. It’ll be done soon.”

Hamilton tears his eyes away from the procedure on his shoulder and locks eyes with Thomas. His face has gone deathly pale, and the pain is etched deeply across his face. That’s how they stay, gazes locked, Hamilton breathing hard, until the doctor pulls the final stitch through and sits back.

“Alright,” the doctor says, his own voice shaking a little. “Bandages and we’re done.” Hamilton’s shoulder is a bloody mess again, the sewn skin red and angry. The moment the doctor secures the last strip of gauze to Hamilton’s shoulder, the little man practically flies from the examination table. He grabs his shirt from the corner of the room and slides it on, fabric stiff from the sheer amount of dried blood on it.

“Thank you.” Thomas nods at the doctor, though doesn’t get to hear what he responds with because Hamilton is dragging him out of the room at a lightning fast pace. The door slams behind them and Hamilton almost manages to escape the urgent care without paying. Thomas digs in his heels and cuts a check for whatever amount the desk nurse tells him to. Hamilton glares at him, squeezing Thomas’ hand tight, while he pays for the procedure.

_If he’s really angry about me paying, he’ll pay me back,_ Thomas thinks. The second he’s done Hamilton is pulling him out of the building and into the warm night air. Hamilton gasps in fresh air, like he had been holding his breath the entire way out. He looks as if he’s about ready to collapse onto the sidewalk.

“That,” Hamilton breathes, “fucking _sucked_.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want anesthetic,” Thomas reminds him. Hamilton turns his head to glare at him, and Thomas suddenly remembers they’re still holding hands. The thought makes his heart so a little somersault, and Thomas quickly lets go, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets. “You didn’t even stick around to get painkillers.”

“Don’t need them,” Hamilton says, his own hand coming down to rest at his side. Thomas realizes his own hand feels cold without Hamilton’s hand in his, and he’s tempted to reach out and take it again. He shoves the thought away.

“Then don’t complain about pain.” Thomas takes off across the parking lot before his impulse control fails him. _Helping him undress, holding his hand, what’s next Thomas? Gonna want to kiss him?_ Thomas throws open the door to Angelica’s car, belatedly remembering that he’s not supposed to drive. “Oops,” he mutters.

“What?” Hamilton asks, eyeing him suspiciously from just outside the passenger side door. Thomas grimaces.

“Don’t tell Lewis I drove?” He asks, hoping.

“Why?” Hamilton’s eyes narrow.

“I’m not technically supposed to drive with three concussions…” Thomas rubs the steering wheel awkwardly. Hamilton rolls his eyes, grumbles something to himself, but slides into the seat anyway.

“Well?” He asks when Thomas doesn’t move. “Let’s get a move on.” Thomas grits his jaw and turns the car over. As he pulls away from the parking lot, Thomas is already trying to concoct a story for James. This could be _bad_.

“...tell Lewis?” Hamilton is talking, Thomas catches just the tail end of it.

“Hm?” he asks. Hamilton huffs.

“Why don’t you want to tell Lewis? You had to drive, so what?”

“I’m not supposed to be driving, Hamilton,” Thomas says. Hamilton nods.

“I get that, but you don’t seem to want to tell Lewis _anything_ about what happened tonight. You two are supposed to be on the same team, right?”

Thomas bites his lip. “Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

“I… we… it’s complicated,” Thomas says lamely. He can feel Hamilton’s disbelieving glare without even having to really look at him.

“Dontcha think _not_ telling him about the Redcoats would make things _more_ complicated?”

“I already lied to him about the party, though,” Thomas admits. “He thinks I’m still trying to talk to Burr.”

Hamilton’s eyes bug out. “It’s been hours!”

Thomas winces, but nods. “I don’t really want to check my phone.”

“Why did you lie to him in the first place?” Hamilton asks. Thomas shrugs, not exactly sure himself. _It seemed like the best thing at the time_ , he thinks. Out loud he says:

“Where do you want to go?”

“John’s apartment,” Hamilton says. Thomas nods. He _thinks_ he remembers where that is. “Why are you going left?” _Okay, maybe I don’t_ , he thinks, sliding out of the left-turn lane. “You should tell Lewis what happened.”

Thomas sighs. “Should I?”

Hamilton nods. “You don’t have to mention anything about the party, just tell him you got shot at.”

“Because on a list of things, getting shot at is the least serious thing,” Thomas drawls. Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“You should still tell him,” Hamilton insists. Thomas sighs, _knowing_ Hamilton is right. It’s not much longer before Hamilton tells him to pull over. Hamilton goes to get out, but hesitates. “I, um…”

“Yes?” Thomas asks, tersely. Hamilton swallows, drumming his hands on the car door.

“Burr didn’t send Lewis away, I did,” he admits. Thomas blinks, his confusion must show on his face because Hamilton keeps talking. “When I said Burr didn’t want to talk to Lewis? That was complete bullshit. It was me, _I_ didn’t want him there.”

“Why?” Thomas asks. Hamilton slides down in his seat, chin tucked into his chest.

“Reasons,” he grumbles. Thomas puts the car in park and twists to face Hamilton. He cocks an eyebrow, and Hamilton turns bright red. “I… you two were acting so… so….!” Hamilton’s good hand motions vaguely in the air in front of him. “And I- I-” Hamilton sighs. “I thought that only having one of you around would be better. To put Burr more at ease!”

Thomas’ eyes narrow. “Is that really why?” Hamilton flinches.

“Yes!” He insists.

“And you chose me over Lewis,” Thomas presses. “I thought Lewis was your favorite?” Hamilton looks like he’s about to smash the car door open and run away.

“That was a _joke_ ,” Hamilton hisses. “I made a split-second decision and made you stay. That’s all.” Hamilton punctuates his words by hitting the dashboard with his good hand. Thomas screws his eyes shut, stifling one last sigh.

“You, Mr. Hamilton, are a strange little man.” Thomas rights himself in his chair.

“I’m not little,” Hamilton grumbles. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Whatever you say, short stack.”

“Fuck you.” Hamilton finally climbs out of the car, moving carefully so as to not jostle his bad shoulder. It takes him a little longer than it should, but eventually he stands and turns to shut the door. Hamilton’s fingers curl around the door frame, but stands there for a second. Thomas looks out at him.

“What now, Hamilton?” Thomas asks. “Shouldn’t you get inside? Rest your shoulder?” Hamilton nods, deflating a little. But then he takes a deep breath, puffs out his chest and speaks.

“Wouldyouhavekissedme _?_ ” Hamilton blurts. Thomas starts.

“What?” Thomas doesn’t think he heard Hamilton right. The other man grits his teeth, gripping the car door tightly.

“During truth or dare. Would you have let me kiss you?” Hamilton’s expression is unreadable, his eyes alight in something that Thomas has seen before; on his face during the actual game. It looks like a flicker of hope and want, but for what Thomas doesn’t know. Thomas drums his fingers against the steering wheel, feeling the seconds tick buy slowly.

Thomas puts himself back in that moment: slightly buzzed, all eyes on him but Hamilton’s face is the only thing he’s focusing on. The same flicker of hope in his eyes, lips slightly parted, expression so carefully guarded. It’s all too easy to imagine: nodding, kneeling down to be on Hamilton’s level, leaning over and...

“Yeah,” Thomas finds himself saying. “Yeah I probably would have.”

Hamilton inhales sharply, the blush returning to his face. His nods jerkily, but before Thomas can say anything else, Hamilton slams the door hard enough to shake the car frame and runs inside John’s apartment building. Thomas is left alone in the running car, staring at the door Hamilton disappeared behind.

On the drive back over to the Schuyler apartment, Thomas mulls over everything. _Imagining kissing Hamilton… what the fuck is wrong with me? I only said that to appease him. Appease him? No, god no. He probably was hoping I wouldn’t. That’s it._ Thomas nods to himself. _Yeah. I said the wrong thing. He’s gonna hate me now. Fine, that’s… that’s absolutely fine. Exactly what I want._

Thomas delivers Angelica’s car to the valet and plants himself on the sidewalk outside. Internally consoling himself that Hamilton hates him now, Thomas pulls out his phone and bites the bullet. Surprisingly, James only texted him three times.

**From: Jemmy:**

**Called Green, got the condos. We’re setting ourselves up right now.**

**Text me when you’re done.**

**How much longer is this going to take?**

The final message is timestamped around when Hamilton was getting his stitches done. Thomas sighs and calls James.

“Thomas, finally!” James breathes when he picks up. “What took so long?”

“Well…” Thomas sighs. “Something happened.”

“What?”

“Just… just come get me at the Schuyler place? I’ve got a story to tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the friend zone wasn't misogynist bullshit, Thomas would have just put poor Ham into it.
> 
> In other news, this is the chapter that officially killed the first file for this fic and why I had to start working in a separate document. 
> 
> In other, other news, always get at least some sort of numbing agent if you have to get stitches. Also go to an actual hospital if you ever get shot, please.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> I forgot to mention last time that the prayer Thomas uses when he thinks he's going to die is Episcopalian in origin, which was real Thomas Jefferson's sect of Christianity.


	25. Two Angry Jelly Beans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone else is dying because holy shit these boys are oblivious.

James drops his keys on the counter and marches up the carpeted stairs. Thomas shuts the condo door behind him and looks around the small kitchen. It’s furnished, and the table and chair set is pretty nice. Nathan Green apparently keeps his meth labs pretty clean. There’s only the faint smell of chemicals and burnt plastic, most of it covered by a gag-inducing level of Febreeze. James told Thomas that when he arrived, the place had been filled with beakers and burners.

Hamilton had obviously skipped over the part where Green’s charitably offered condos were occasionally used to cook drugs. Supposedly, they hadn’t been used in a while, but Thomas wondered exactly how long it had been if the stench was still present. They can’t complain, of course, they’ve got nowhere else to go, and why would Will Clark and Matt Lewis complain about living in a drug den anyway? _It’s not like we’re cops or anything,_ Thomas thinks, eyeing a particularly deep and suspicious scratch in the table top.

Thomas hears James pound on a door upstairs. “Boys, get up. Thomas is back and we got something to deal with,” he calls, presumably to Louis and Steuben. A second later, James is coming back down the stairs, laptop and phone in hand. James slides off his coat and throws it on the back of a chair, taking a seat and booting up the computer.

“Do we have food yet?” Thomas asks. “Haven’t eaten since lunch.” James nods, and points at a what looks to be a pantry.

“Good luck,” he says, typing something into his phone. Before Thomas can go, however, Louis blearily stumbles down the stairs. Steuben is just behind him, looking all sorts of grumpy. Louis’ hair is still mussed, and a trail of half-dried drool runs down his chin. Thomas almost doesn’t recognize the man so unkempt.

“That’s why you never wanted to share a room!” Thomas exclaims, staring at Louis. The man glares sleepily at Thomas, before shoving past him and starting to dig around in the cabinets. Steuben takes one look at Thomas and his angry expression quickly morphs into one of concern.

“Who’s blood is that?!” He asks, pointing at Thomas’ shirt sleeves and hands.

“It’s not mine,” Thomas explains. “It’s Hamilton’s.” That doesn’t seem to help matters, as Steuben’s expression just turns more alarmed. He opens his mouth to speak again, but is cut off by a sleepy voice.

“James?” Martha breathes. “What… what time is it?” Thomas looks over, to find James putting his phone down on the table.

“Early, Thomas is back,” James says, turning his attention back to his laptop. Martha groans, and there’s the sound of rustling fabric.

“And you called me because…?” She asks.

“Thomas got shot at,” James explains. Louis nearly drops the mug in his hands on the counter top.

“ _What_?” Steuben demands, eyes bugging out of his head.

“...I’ll get Sally up,” Martha sighs. There’s feedback as Martha gets out of bed. Thomas looks back at Steuben and smiles weakly.

“A group of Redcoats broke into the Schuyler apartment and tried to shoot us? It’s not bad! No one got hurt… majorly…” he trails. James turns completely around in his seat to glare at Thomas.

“You said seven people _died_ ,” he says. Thomas winces.

“Seven Redcoats,” he counters. James gives a heavy sigh and turns back around. Steuben is still staring at Thomas, wide-eyed. Thomas can hear Louis grumble something to himself about preferring Thomas’ death if it meant he could sleep in as he jabs buttons on a coffee machine.

“Why are you covered in blood then?!” Steuben insists.

“That’s not a sentence I want to wake up to,” Sally mumbles on the phone.

“ _Hamilton_ got shot, not me,” Thomas snaps. “I took him to the emergency room. He’s fine. Probably.” Thomas crosses his arms, huffing. Louis comes back in the kitchen, nursing a full mug of steaming coffee. He takes a seat at the table, plaid pj pants flaring around his legs. He glares at Thomas.

“From the beginning,” he commands. Thomas’ eyes narrow, eyeing the man, considering him. Louis rolls his eyes. “I'm not ordering you, I'm just tired and _asking_ you to tell the fucking story.”

Thomas huffs again, but launches into it. He leaves out any hint of partying, just pretends he had been trying to convince Burr to talk while the others had celebrated. He runs through the actual conflict as quickly as possible, making sure to stress that it was _Hamilton_ that fired first. Even if Louis hums suspiciously, Thomas knows Hamilton and the rest will back him up.

“...I took Hamilton to get some stitches and dropped him off at Laurens’ apartment. And that’s the end of the story,” Thomas finishes. James types furiously, trying his best to write down Thomas’ statement as best as possible. Louis drains the rest of his coffee, and Steuben looks like he’s ready to throw his head through the nearest window.

“If I understand you correctly,” the German starts, “you trusted a _Redcoat_ to hide with from _other Redcoats_ , then got in a _gunfight_ while severely outnumbered, possibly _killed_ a couple of people, let the Sons take a _prisoner_ , and took one of them to get medical help but didn’t call for _backup?!_ Not _once_?!”

“Hamilton had my phone the whole time!” Thomas counters. “I would have, if I could have.”

“You didn’t notice Hamilton pick-pocketing you?” Steuben asks, incredulously.

“That’s typically how pick-pocketing works, the victim doesn’t notice!” Thomas scoffs and glares at the man. “I’m sorry I was preoccupied with Burr! What’s your problem?”

“What’s my _problem_?” Steuben shouts. “My _problem_ is that you got in a gunfight! You could have been hurt! We just lost Ben and _you_ _almost died!_ ”

Thomas blinks, takes a step back. “I didn’t…” he trails. Suddenly, it hits him like a two ton weight. He had been _shot_ at. There had been a moment, at the top of the stairs, right before the others had come to his rescue that Thomas had thought he was going to die. He _should_ have died. If Peggy, Laurens, Lafayette, and Angelica hadn’t decided to disobey Thomas’ order to stay hidden, Thomas would be dead right now. Thomas, and everyone else who was in that apartment. Thomas lets out shuddering breath, the thought _I should be dead right now_ repeating over and over in his mind.

“Thomas, are you alright?” James asks, suddenly concerned. Thomas stares at the floor with wide eyes.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “I almost died. We _all_ almost died.” He clamps one hand over his mouth, feeling his stomach churn. “I’m gonna vomit.”

“Trash can.” Louis points towards a small plastic pin tucked in the corner of the kitchen. Thomas almost trips over himself in his rush to reach it in time. He falls to his knees and his stomach empties itself, though there wasn’t much to empty in the first place. Thomas ends up dry-heaving instead, choking on air the entire time.

A hand comes down on his back and starts rubbing little circles into it, and Thomas looks up long enough to see that it’s James that’s come to comfort him. He makes little shushing noises as Thomas retches, clutching the sides of the trash can for dear life. The others talk quietly in the background, but Thomas is too preoccupied with his heaving stomach to pay any attention.

At some length, his stomach stops trying to leave his body via his mouth and Thomas rests his forehead against the plastic container. “Sorry,” he mutters. James sighs.

“You’ve had a shock. Vomiting is okay.” James keeps rubbing Thomas’ back, even as Thomas shakes his head.

“No, I put myself in danger and-” he clamps his mouth shut, his stomach doing another little acrobatic routine. James is silent for a moment, as if waiting for Thomas to get sick again.

“Well, if you’re telling me the truth about what happened tonight…” James trails, thinking. Thomas feels his breath catch, his chest tighten. _James is going to try and send me away. This is it. This is_ \- “I think you handled yourself right.”

Thomas blinks, looking up at James. “What?”

“Well, you did everything you could do right. Hamilton shot first. You backed him up. Everything else was self-defense. You were protecting innocents and did a pretty damn good job at it.” James pats Thomas on the back. “As for the Redcoat, there was nothing to do besides keep him alive. We’ll have to deal with it, but… all in all, good job Thomas.”

Thomas lets out a breath of relief and James smiles. James stands, offering a hand to help Thomas up.

“Still should have called for backup,” Louis grumbles. Thomas opens his mouth to protest, but James just rolls his eyes and walks back to the table.

Thomas shoots Louis one more glare. “Now, we gotta come up with a plan as to how to get that Redcoat in our custody,” Thomas says, straightening his shirt.

\------------

James nudges on the shoulder. “Wake up, Thomas.”

Thomas groans and picks his head up from where it had been resting against the window of the car. He looks at James, head pounding. “Are we there?”

“Yep,” James says, shutting off the car. Thomas groans again and glances at his phone. _Twenty minutes, that’s all the sleep I got_. He feels like crying, he’s so exhausted. The team had spent the entire early morning planning, and then Hamilton had to text him about _another_ Sons meeting. Thomas practically falls out of the car, and when he stands he feels the world spin around him. _Jesus H. Christ I just need one good night’s sleep_ , he internally moans.

James opens the door for him. Thomas stumbles inside, feeling like he’s moving through molasses. He manages to get his feet to clod all the way over to the circle of chairs already set up and he collapses in one. It’s metal and uncomfortable and before he can stop himself, Thomas lets out a little whine.

“Awww, what’s wrong?” Hamilton sings from across the room. Thomas cracks an eye open to glare at him while he continues to tease. “Baby want a cusion? Or a high chair?” Thomas feels like his eyes want to roll into the back of his head. He drops his head against James’ stomach behind him. Slowly, as if using the last of his energy, Thomas raises his right hand and flips Hamilton off. Hamilton sticks his lower lip and gives Thomas the biggest puppy eyes. “Oh, he’s grumpy. Lewis, did you bring his bottles or binkies?”

“Hamilton,” Thomas groans. “I have not slept but twenty minutes in the last twenty-four hours.”

Hamilton scoffs. “I’ve gone longer.” Thomas picks his head up and cocks an eyebrow.

“Congratulations,” he retorts, then lets his head fall back again. Hamilton starts to rant again, but Thomas’ eyes slide shut and he feels James start to run a hand through his hair. It’s comforting, relaxing, and Thomas feels like he could just drift off to sleep right here. James’ fingertips rubbing his scalp is so familiar and safe, Thomas can feel himself smile despite it all. James is here. James supports him.

“Yo, you two wanna stop making googly-eyes and actually pay attention?” Hamilton snaps. Thomas’ smile falls as James’ hands falter and quickly disappear from his head. Thomas raises his head to glare at the shorter man, who has crossed the circle to stand in front of them. He glances around the brightly lit dance floor.

“There’s practically no one here yet,” he observes. Hamilton scowls.

“Yeah, well, I was talking!” He exclaims. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“That’s the most ‘you’ thing you could ever way,” he retorts. “Were you saying anything _important?_ ” Hamilton flushes red, and he bites at his lip. Thomas takes the silence as his answer. “Thought so.” He leans back into James, hoping he’ll start playing with his hair again.

“Keep your PDA out of our meetings,” Hamilton shoots back. “Go be in love somewhere else.” Thomas lets out a sigh.

“I told you last night, Hamilton,” he mutters, eyes still shut, “I am not in love with Lewis. We are good friends, _that’s_ it.” He peeks just in time to see Hamilton eye James’ face curiously. Thomas feels James shift under his head and he feels a swell of pride. James is actually _selling_ it.

“Yeah, sure.” Hamilton glances around the space, as if looking for something else to talk about. Thomas shuts his eyes again, mentally daring Hamilton to say anything else. But the other man is silent. Thomas almost falls asleep again, but the noises of various people entering and talking around him keep him frustratingly awake.

When Washington finally calls the meeting to order, Thomas sits up and spends almost the entire meeting dead silent. The others tell the story for him, and he grunts when someone asks him a question.

“Clark, are you alright?” Washington asks, concern actually in his voice. Thomas rubs at his face.

“I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, I’ve got an exhaustion headache, and I almost got killed last night,” he grumbles. “Add on Ben and all the other shit… yeah, I’m peachy keen. What do you fucking think?” Thomas plants his cheek in his palm, elbow on his knee, and looks up at Washington. The look he’s going for is ruined by the yawn that follows a second later. Washington frowns, but it’s not angry, just worried.

“This will be over soon. You can go take a nap then,” he says. Thomas nods and sighs. “Now, about the Redcoat in the basement…”

Instantly, Thomas’ head shoots up. “He’s in the basement? This place has a basement?!”

Washington nods. “We put him down there for the time being, yes.” He points at Lafayette’s office door. “It’s that way. Do we have a name for him?”

Hamilton nods. “Eaker.”

“First name?” Washington prompts. Hamilton shrugs.

“Won’t tell us. Does it matter?” The Latino asks.

“Why the hell is he even still alive?” Knox asks. “What use is he alive? We should just kill him.” Green nods, and other men mutter their agreements.

“Is anyone watching him?” Thomas asks. Angelica nods.

“Philip and Eliza, currently,” she says, then turns to Knox. “He’s alive because he might have valuable information.”

“He’s never going to talk,” Knox counters.

“You don’t know that. Besides, he could be used as a hostage or a trade. This is war, after all,” Angelica retorts. Thomas watches the exchange, grateful it's not him and Hamilton going at it for once.

“King doesn’t care about foot soldiers.” Knox crosses his arms, frowning at Angelica. The woman just keeps smiling.

“Maybe he doesn't, but perhaps Reynolds or Seabury or hell, the kid’s _family_ might want to discuss terms.”

“Do we know anything about this Eaker punk?” Green asks. The circle is silent for a moment, giving Green his answer. “So, we’ve got nothing on him. May I ask again, why is he still alive?”

“Because he’s useful alive!” Angelica insists. She’s met with cries of ‘bullshit’ and ‘he’s more trouble alive,’ and other various disagreements from the circle. Lafayette shifts uncomfortably in their seat, and glances at Thomas. They look hesitant, cautious. _Are you going to say anything?_ Their expression reads.

Thomas grits his jaw. “I agree with Angelica,” he says over the din. He’s met with glares, but generally ignored. He glances around the circle, trying to find another ally. The other governors are grumbling amongst themselves, and even Hamilton looks reluctant to jump in. Washington pounds on his booth.

“Quiet _everyone_.” His voice booms over the chatter, and instantly silence falls on the group of men. Washington lets the quiet reign for a moment, working his jaw. He glances to the section of the circle where the other lieutenants are. “Lafayette, Laurens, Tallmadge, Hamilton, your opinions?”

“We should kill the fuck,” Laurens says immediately. Knox, Green and the other vocal governors erupt into cheers. Washington has to hit the booth again to get them quiet. Lafayette shakes their head.

“I hate to disagree, but we cannot kill him in cold blood.”

“And why not?” Knox demands. Lafayette levels him with a cold glare.

“Because that is something King would do if he had _any_ of us in his possession. I do not wish to deign to his level.” The silence following Lafayette’s words is tense, awkward. Green shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Knox lowers his gaze.

“I just think he’s a danger…” Knox mutters. Lafayette nods.

“And I think he’s contained, and therefore not a danger.”

Washington hums, and turns to Tallmadge. The large man, who had been silent up until now, sighs. “Until we prove him not useful, he should live.” Thomas eyes Tallmadge from the side. He still doesn’t know for sure what the man does, but now he’s got some guesses. Pretty good ones too.

Thomas is pulled back into the conversation as Washington asks Hamilton his opinion. The shorter man fidgets in his seat, eyes flicking back and forth between Angelica and Laurens. He bites at his lip, worrying it between his teeth. The group is quiet, all eyes on Hamilton. Thomas leans forward in his seat, just far enough to really look at the other man directly.

Hamilton makes eye contact with Thomas and freezes. Thomas feels his eyebrows raise of their own accord. He doesn’t know if his own expression reads _I’ll fight you on this_ or _don’t you fucking dare say what I think you’re going to say_ or even just _please_ , but it must send a message because he sees Hamilton swallow. Hamilton’s expression softens, just a bit, and Thomas is seized with this feeling in his chest that he can’t describe. Then Hamilton’s face hardens in determination, and he turns back to Washington.

“At this point, I think we have to keep him alive,” Hamilton says. Thomas blinks, feeling the shock spread across his face like it spreads across the circle. Angelica beams at Hamilton, then turns her smile on Thomas. Laurens grumbles, but shares a little knowing look with Lafayette. Thomas glances up at Washington, whose expression has turned thoughtful. The leader of the Sons looks back and forth between Thomas and Hamilton curiously, then nods.

“Alright. The Redcoat lives,” Washington says. Knox jumps to his feet.

“George!” He exclaims. Washington is already shaking his head however.

“It’s my decision, he lives.” Washington looks around the circle. “But I’m not sure I’m comfortable keeping him in the basement.” Knox huffs, scowling as he drops back down in his seat. Green reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I ain’t taking him,” Knox grumbles. Green shakes his head, frowning.

“I really don’t mind keeping him,” Lafayette says. “It would be difficult for him to sneak out of here.”

Laurens speaks up. “What about-” the rest of his suggestion is lost as someone else starts to speak over him. Arguments erupt, the gang members sniping at each other. Someone starts to raise their voice- Hamilton, from the look of how he’s turning beet red and glaring at Adams. Thomas looks up at James, and clears his throat.

“I’ll take him.” Thomas sticks his hand into the air. The arguments cease instantly, Hamilton whipping his head around to look at Thomas wide-eyed.

“What do _you_ want with him,” Tallmadge asks, face neutral. Thomas lets his hand fall.

“It’s like Angelica said: he might have some information. I can get him to talk.” Thomas leaves the rest of the men to imagine what he might possibly mean, but Hamilton’s eyes narrow.

“What if he doesn’t talk?” he challenges. Thomas shrugs.

“I’ll use him as a drug mule, I don’t know,” he drawls. He looks up at Washington. “How about it? I’ll take him off your hands.” Thomas tries to give him the most charming smile possible. Washington pauses, then shakes his head.

“No, you don’t get him.”

Thomas blinks. “But I think I _should_ take him,” he insists. “Out of everyone here, I’m the only one offering.”

“You’re not taking him. I don’t think we’d ever see him again if you did. I want him in _my_ custody, Washington counters. Thomas scowls.

“In complete honesty-” he starts.

“In complete honesty, he’s ours and you can keep your nose out of it,” Hamilton snaps. Thomas grits his jaw. Knox’ eyebrows are starting to furrow, and James coughs behind Thomas.

“If he’s _ours_ ,” Thomas puts as much stress on the word as he dares, “then he’s just as much mine as he is yours.” Hamilton flinches as he processes what almost just happened. Knox is still glancing between them, but he’s seemingly the only one that caught Hamilton’s slip. _Well fuck_ , Thomas thinks, _now Knox is suspicious._ The others must still consider Thomas enough of an outsider not to question it.

“I’m offering to keep him here,” Lafayette reminds Washington. The gang leader hums, and looks at Laurens questioningly. The freckled man huffs.

“Whatever, I don’t care,” he grumbles. Washington nods.

“If no one protests…”

“I still think-” Thomas is cut off by a wave of Washington’s hand.

“If no one _besides Clark_ protests,” Washington amends. Thomas scowls and glances up at James, hoping the other man had an idea. But James just sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, Eaker is living in the basement. Tallmadge can start working on him whenever he wants. If no one else has got anything to talk about…” he pauses, waiting for anyone to jump in. “Meeting adjourned.”

Tallmadge nods, a flicker of a smile on his face. Thomas’ stomach drops. He really needs to talk to Hamilton about that man. Speaking of which, Hamilton is already up from his seat and and crossing the room to Lafayette’s office. As the other men mill about and chat, Thomas watches Hamilton stride over to the open door. Eliza stands in the doorway, leaning against the wall and waiting for the man to reach her.

 _I thought she was watching Eaker,_ Thomas thinks. Someone calls for Lewis, and James slinks off to a small group of governors in the corner. Thomas sees Eliza say something to Hamilton, her words too quiet and the room too loud for him to hear. Hamilton breaks out into a grin, his face lighting up in joy and pride. He responds, and Eliza giggles, a tinkle of laughter than manages to cut through the noise.

The sound of it does something to Thomas. It sends a strange flash of anger through his body, and before he knows what’s happening, Thomas is rising from his chair and crossing the room. He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to keep him face neutral, tries to hide the fact his blood is churning in his veins. As Thomas approaches, Hamilton glances at him over his shoulder, but immediately goes back to Eliza.

“I do like what you’ve done with your hair since you’ve been gone,” he says, smiling. Eliza blushes and runs her fingers through her hair.

“I just let it grow a little,” she says modestly, playing with her raven hair with one hand. Thomas clears his throat, coming to a stop next to Hamilton.

“Hamilton,” he says, voice hard and commanding. “I need to speak with you.” Hamilton frowns at him.

“I’m talking to Betsy, chill out a second,” he says. Thomas crosses his arms, law clenched tightly. “Well, I think it looks amazing.” Hamilton eyes the length of Eliza’s hair, gaze travelling up and down admiringly. Thomas looks, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye. _It’s not_ that _great_ , he thinks.

“Thanks, Alexander,” she says, beaming. The two of them are smiling at one another like a couple in love and Thomas can’t stand it. Eyes narrowed at Eliza, Thomas grabs Hamilton by the elbow.

“Go be in love somewhere else,” he growls. “I need to talk to you.” He looks at Hamilton, pulling slightly on his arm. Hamilton pulls his arm from Thomas grip roughly, giving Thomas a scowl.

“Jesus Christ, fine! I’ll talk to you later, yeah?” He asks Eliza. The woman nods and Thomas has to suppress a literal hiss as she disappears back into the office. Hamilton turns back to Thomas. “What’s gotten into _you_?” He spits. Thomas blinks. _What has gotten into me?_ Thomas shakes the thought from his mind.

“I need to speak to you,” Thomas repeats, realizing he has no idea what he intends to say. His mind starts spinning, trying to remember what it was he was worried about.

“So you’ve said.” Hamilton crosses his arms, though the glare he gives Thomas doesn’t have as much malice in it as usual, and Thomas doesn’t know what to do with that information. So he goes with the next thing his mind thinks up to say.

“I want to see Eaker,” he says. Hamilton’s eyebrow shoots up.

“That’s what’s so important?” He asks. “You could have asked Laf or John, or maybe, I don’t know, just gone down on your own?” Thomas purses his lips, cursing himself.

“Whatever,” he says, lamely. “Come with me.” Hamilton blinks, just as shocked that Thomas would say that as Thomas is himself. Before Hamilton can call him on it, Thomas pulls Hamilton into the office. He glances around for another door, finds it in the wall opposite Laf’s desk, and throws it open.

It’s the door to the basement alright. Concrete stairs illuminated by a single hanging light stretch out before Thomas, leading down into the bowels of _The Frenchman_. It’s a complete 180 from the plush, luxurious office and club, the walls and stars bare of carpet or decoration. The sight of it sends chills down Thomas’ spine. He steels himself and starts down into the basement.

There’s no hand railing, so Thomas picks his way down slowly. Hamilton follows, grumbling about the speed Thomas is moving at. Thomas shoots back something about not wanting to fall and kill himself, and Hamilton threatens to push him.

When Thomas does eventually reach the bottom of the stairs, he has to turn a sharp corner to enter the basement proper. It’s just as barren as the staircase, concrete floor and walls. There is some corkboard on one of the walls, various power tools hanging from hooks on the wall. In the far corner is another door, pipes on the ceiling leading behind it. There are no windows, just a few hanging unprotected bulbs.

And there, in the center, is Eaker. He’s tied to a chair in the very center of the room, away from any walls. His wrists, ankles, and even his waist have been secured to a wooden chair. He glares at Thomas and Hamilton as they enter the basement, though he doesn’t say anything. Eaker’s right pant leg is coated in dried blood, and the chair leg it’s tied to has some as well.

“There, you saw him,” Hamilton grunts. Thomas shoots him a glare, then turns his attention back to Eaker. He takes a step forward towards the captured Redcoat. The man glares up at Thomas, nothing but anger and hatred in his eyes.

“What’re you gonna do?” The question comes from behind Thomas. He glances over his shoulder to find Philip sitting on a table against the wall. The younger man kicks his legs in the air, he’s too short to reach the floor. He’s looking at Thomas warily, and Eliza is standing in a nearby corner eyeing Thomas as well. Thomas looks back at Eaker, his eyes narrowing.

“Nothing.” Thomas turns around, heading back for the stairs. “For now,” he ads, and starts back up to the office. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Philip and Hamilton shoot each other confused looks. A second later, Hamilton is following Thomas back up the stairs.

“ _What was that about?_ ” He asks, sliding into French easily.

“ _Intimidation technique._ ”

“ _Why?_ ”

“ _So when Lewis is kind to him later, he might be willing to bend._ ”

“ _Good cop, bad cop, really?_ ” Hamilton drawls. Thomas nods.

“ _It’s a trope for a reason. One of the first things you learn in the academy_.” Thomas hits the office landing and waits for Hamilton to follow before throwing the door shut.

“You did not need _me_ for that,” Hamilton observes. Thomas shrugs.

“Helps my image to have you with me.” It’s probably true, but Thomas makes the reason up on the spot. Hamilton just rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Anything else you want me for, your majesty?” He mocks. Thomas has to suppress the urge to sigh.

“Yes, actually,” he says. “Tallmadge.” Hamilton visibly stiffens, his eyes narrowing. “He’s running a pseudo-spy ring inside the Redcoats, isn’t he?” Hamilton bites his lip, and for a second, Thomas thinks he’s gotten it wrong. “Mulligan is one of those spies, right?” He presses. Hamilton looks up at the ceiling and lets out a breath.

“Yeah,” he admits. “It’s why we don’t talk about it public. We don’t think King knows about it yet.” Thomas nods.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he mutters. _Louis owes me twenty bucks_ , he thinks. _Can’t believe he doubted me_.

“What?” Hamilton asks. Thomas blinks.

“Oh, we thought…” he lets out a chuckle. “We had a thousand guesses as to what Tallmadge does and the popular guess was ‘hitman’”

“He does that too, just not as much recently,” Hamilton says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world to admit. Thomas goes wide-eyed, head tilted forward, waiting for the punchline. But there is none, as Hamilton just gives him a half-smile and shrugs. “Ask him yourself, if you want.” With that, Hamilton leaves the office, humming to himself. Thomas just stands there, shellshocked for a moment, before slowly following Hamilton out. He glances around the room and spots Tallmadge in a corner, talking amicably to James. The hitman lets out a laugh at something James says, and Thomas is suddenly unsure of what to do. Battling the conflicting thoughts of ‘rescue James’ and ‘don’t do anything suspicious,’ Thomas doesn’t notice Laurens sneak up behind him.

Thomas jumps as the shorter man’s arm falls around his shoulders. Tearing his eyes away from James and Tallmadge, Thomas looks down at the man suddenly in his personal space. Laurens leans into Thomas’ side, a knowing smirk on his face.

“So,” he says, eyebrows wiggling. Thomas brow furrows.

“So…?” he asks.

“I saw you just now,” Laurens says. “With Alex and ‘Liza.”

Thomas, confused, cocks one eyebrow. “May I repeat: so?”

Laurens chuckles. “You think you’re smooth, don’t you.” The freckled man smirks wider. “But I saw it.”

“Saw what?” Thomas bites back.

“You were _jealous_ ,” Laurens sings, booping Thomas on the nose. Thomas blinks, head recoiling away from the man at his side.

“What?”

“You were jealous Eliza and Ham were getting all flirty, so you stopped it.” Laurens trails one finger down Thomas’ chest. Thomas, finally processing what Laurens was saying, steps out of Laurens’ half-embrace.

“I was not! That’s not what happened!” Thomas exclaims. Laurens rolls his eyes and chuckles again. “Not at all!”

“Sure, man,” Laurens says. “I saw the way you were looking at Alex earlier too. Everyone sees it. You’re not subtle.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Thomas insists. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Thomas goes to cross the room, to grab James and get out of here before Laurens or anyone else can start hurling more baseless accusations at him.

“Oh buddy, you’re in deep and don’t even know it,” Laurens calls after him. Thomas feels his face heat up as he stalks away. James spots him approaching from half the room away and breaks off his conversation to meet him in the center of the room.

“Something the matter?” James asks. Thomas shakes his head.

“Let’s just go, yeah?” he mutters. James frowns.

“Why? It’s not like we have any leads,” he mutters, quieter than Thomas. “Besides, some of these guys are talking about having already moved the Burrs again.” Thomas shrugs.

“I want to leave.”

“Well, I think we need to stay and make connections. You haven’t met most of these guys personally yet. And we need to find out where they’ve taken Burr and Prevost.”

“We can do that later. They’re safe. I… I need to sleep,” he says. Not necessarily a lie, but Thomas comes up with the excuse in that second. James frowns.

“Go sleep in the car. I’m staying a bit.”

Thomas rolls his eyes and says: “Might as well just walk back to the condo then.” James shrugs.

“Have fun,” he says, and spins on one heel to go back to Tallmadge. The gangster smiles as James approaches. James slips right back into their conversation, a few of the governors having made a small group around the spymaster. Thomas blinks.

 _Today’s just full of surprises, isn’t it?_ He thinks to himself. Not seeing a better option, Thomas decides that a walk is just going to have to happen. Thomas, waving a quick goodbye to Washington, slips out the front door of _The Frenchman_. He tries to remember which way the condo is, and decides that right is as good a direction as any.

Thomas heads off down the sidewalk with only his thoughts to occupy him. _I’m not jealous over Hamilton_ , he thinks. _No, not at all. What an absolutely ridiculous thought. To be jealous would mean that I have feelings for the pathetic fuck. Which I most certainly do not. Nope. No feelings here. Nevermind that I said I would kiss him and offered to help undress him. Why am I even still thinking about that? It’s nothing! Nothing at all!_

Thomas turns a corner, completely immersed in his thoughts. Cars pass on the street, the wind they create pulling at Thomas’ hair and clothes. _I mean, Hamilton is completely insufferable. Always shouting and talking and smiling and generally being charming- stop. Shut the fuck up. He’s not charming, he’s annoying. Yeah, annoying. Annoying and rude and a smartass and smart._

Thomas is so wrapped up in his thoughts he doesn’t notice one of the cars slow to a near crawl just behind him. He doesn’t hear the car doors open or the footsteps come up behind him. Thomas doesn’t know anything is wrong until a strong hand clamps down around his mouth and another arm slides around his chest.

Thomas’ eyes go wide, his training kicks in and he tries to throw an elbow into the man behind him. It misses, and something hits Thomas in the back of the knees. His legs go out beneath him and the person starts to drag Thomas backwards.

Thomas struggles, flails at his attacker’s arms and tries to find purchase on the ground with his feet. He opens his mouth and tries to bite down on the hand, but he can’t quite manage to do it.

He realizes that he’s screaming beneath the human gag. His heart is pounding out of his chest but he can’t catch his breath through his nose. Another pair of hands grabs at his feet, and Thomas looks down. He doesn’t recognize the man trying to hold Thomas’ legs still.

Thomas kicks, or tries to anyway. The man tucks Thomas’ shins under his arm and the two people carry Thomas backwards to the waiting car. It’s more of a van, actually, Thomas can see glimpses of it.

He squirms in the air, trying his best to free himself but to no avail. He feels the man by his head raise him up into the back of the van, the rest of his body and the other man following but a moment later.

The van doors shut and Thomas feels it lurch into motion. The man at his feet reaches for a bag on the floor of the van and pulls out a handful of zip ties.

Thomas realizes what’s happening before it does, and he tries to keep his feet apart and moving, but the man practically sits on his legs. A second later, Thomas’ ankles are tied together with multiple strips of plastic. Then the man turns around and makes short work of Thomas’ wrists despite Thomas’ struggles.

The moment Thomas limbs are secured, the man with the zip ties scoots back and plants himself by the van door. The other man pulls Thomas up into a sitting position.

“I’m gonna remove my hand, and you ain’t gonna scream. Not that anyone would hear you, I just don’t wanna hear any of it, you got it?”

Thomas swallows and nods, knowing there’s not much else he can do in this situation. The man does as he said, lowering his hand and letting go of Thomas’ chest. Thomas immediately wiggles away from him, but there’s nowhere to go.

“Who the fuck are you?” Thomas spits, voice a little harsh from screaming before. There’s a chuckling that arises from the front seat of the van. Thomas follows it with his eyes. Through the front window, he can see the streetlight in front of them turn red and the van stops moving. The driver turns around in his seat, and Thomas’ heart stops.

“What? Don’t recognize an old friend, Agent Jefferson?” James Reynolds laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you come to expect anything else with me?
> 
> See you Saturday


	26. Thomas Makes New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure everyone will get along nicely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, homophobic slurs, and an ooc Sam Seabury.

This is bad.

This is _really_ bad. This is the last place Thomas wants to be right now: tied up in the back of a van being driven by James _motherfucking_ Reynolds. Thomas’ thoughts grind to a halt, stuck on the rising panic in his chest.

Reynolds chuckles at Thomas’ wide-eyed, terrified expression and turns back around in his seat. The van starts moving again and Thomas flinches at a bump in the road. Instinctively, Thomas curls his arms into his chest as tightly as possible, trying to scoot away from the two other Redcoats in the van with him. He manages to to put his back against one of the van walls and curl his knees up to his chest.

One of the other Redcoats laughs at him, shaking his head and crossing his arms. Thomas recognizes him from when Thomas had rescued Arnold from Reynolds. The three dots tattoo is barely visible in the dark of the van, but it’s the same man.

Thomas tries to breathe, tries to calm the storm of panic and terror brewing inside him. He can’t show fear, these men will use it against him. _Play it off, Thomas,_ he instructs himself, _be calm. Stay in control._ _Remember your training_. _Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t let them see your body shake._

Thomas forces his coiled muscles to relax. He rests the back of his head against the van and slides his legs back down. His arms he can’t really do much with, so he keeps his hands tucked under his chin. It helps hide the trembling in his arms anyway, and it’s a slight comfort. He looks up at the ceiling of the van and lets out a sigh. The other two Redcoats are watching him, disdainful curiosity on their faces.

Thomas tries to think, tries to remember what he’s been taught to do in this kind of situation. _Determine likelihood of being killed._ Thomas sighs internally. _Very high._ Okay, if he’s going to die, focus on escape. Step one: get as much information as possible.

“Hey Reynolds,” Thomas says. He waits for a beat of silence before trying again. “Reynolds. _Reynolds,_ hey.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Reynolds growls back. Thomas has to bite down a smile. Getting him to talk at all is good.

“Reynol-”

“Man, he said shut up,” Three Dots snaps. Thomas glares at him, then rolls his eyes.

“Was I talking to you? No.” Thomas turns his head to look at the back of Reynolds’ chair. “Reynolds,” he calls. “Reynolds.” Still getting no answer, Thomas sighs, then takes a deep breath.

“ _Reeeeeeeeyyyyynoooooooo-_ ”

“ _What?”_ Reynolds snaps his head around to glare at Thomas. “What could you possibly want?” Thomas looks at him, innocently as possible.

“I just wanted to know where we’re going,” Thomas says simply. “You know, which little pier you want to shoot me on and dump my body. If it’s not too hard, I’d like to request somewhere on the Hudson? That way, if I’m floating in a river for a while, I won’t be in danger of getting eaten by a whale or something.” Reynolds’ glare turns almost flabbergasted, jaw offset in disbelief. He slowly turns back around.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he mutters. “That’s the only explanation.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult coming from a man who works for George King?” Thomas wonders. Reynolds just shakes his head. Thomas bites his lip, thinking. He glances at the other two men in the car, but decides they likely have no idea what’s going on. Getting Reynolds to talk is his best option.

“Reynolds, seriously. I’d like to know,” Thomas insists.

“I’m sure you would,” Reynolds replies. Thomas stifles another sigh. He’s getting nowhere. He looks back at the other two men in the car. Maybe he could _try_ these two. See if either of them have anything to spill. Just as Thomas opens his mouth to speak, the van hits another bump in the road.

Three Dots, who had been in the middle of shifting position, is knocked off balance and he goes sprawling on the floor of the van. He curses to himself, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Thomas can’t hold a snort of laughter back as a sharp turn sends the prone man flying into the opposite wall. From his sideways position, Three Dots glares at him.

“Yeah, laugh while you can, pig,” he spits. “You won’t be laughin when the boss gets his hands on you.”

Thomas immediately stills. The boss. _King_. He’s being taken to see King. Thomas swallows the lump of fear in his throat. _Fuck me_. Thomas falls silent, mind spinning. He can’t decide if this boosts or reduces his chances of dying. Either way, maybe silence is the best option right now. Three Dots rights himself and no one speaks anymore.

Reynolds starts humming to himself, and Thomas tries to tune it out. The panic is rising again. _What does King want with me? Nothing good, that’s for sure_. Thomas leans his head back against the wall of the van and shuts his eyes. He sways with the movement of the van, and it’s almost soothing. He could fall asleep here, in different circumstances.

Thomas focuses on the movement, keeping his mind on that and not his impending doom. He lets his body rock gently, the vibrations of the car against his head are oddly comforting. He begins to lose track of time, the ride is silent and his whole body calms. For a moment, he forgets where he is.

Then he’s hit, a slap across the face that makes his cheek sting, his head snapping to the side under the unexpected impact.

“Rise and shine, love,” Three Dots drawls. “We’re here.” Thomas cracks his eyes open, feeling the way they complain under his contact lenses. _Did I actually fall asleep?_ He wonders. _Shit. I have no idea how long we travelled_. Three Dots hovers over Thomas, on his feet now that the van’s stalled. He holds a burlap sack in one hand and Thomas internally groans.

A second later, the bag is over Thomas’ head and he’s being pulled onto his feet by his arms. He feels the zip ties around his ankles come off and blood rushes to his feet. As, presumably, Three Dots leads Thomas out of the van, Thomas grumbles: “What, can’t see where I’m _walking_?”

“Not until the boss says so,” Three Dots replies. Thomas rolls his eyes, thankful the bag keeps his expression hidden. He can feel wind from outside hit his body and the stench of a river floods his nose. _We’re by the water… but which river?_

Three Dots gives Thomas no warning for when he reaches the end of the van, so when Thomas puts his foot down in air there is no way for him to stop himself from falling face-first into the ground. Three Dots still holds his arms up, and Thomas finds himself completely prone on the ground. Thomas hisses a breath through his teeth, thankful he’d had the wherewithal to turn his face so his nose didn’t take the brunt of the fall.

“Up,” an unfamiliar voice commands. The demand is accompanied by a swift kick to Thomas’ side. He winces, silently, and does his best to right himself while Three Dots holds his arms out in front of him.

Somehow, eventually, Thomas staggers to his feet and stands. He expects to be hauled forward, but they let him stand still for a moment. Blinded by the sack, Thomas tries to focus on what he can hear. But the only sounds are bird calls, distant traffic, and a set of approaching footsteps.

“Welcome, Agent Jefferson,” Reynolds says. “To your own personal hell.”

Thomas turns his head to where he thinks the man is standing. “Thanks for the luxury travel,” he says. Not a moment later, something collides with Thomas’ stomach with enough force to push all the air out of his lungs.

Thomas doubles over, unable to stop the breath from audibly escaping his chest. He wheezes, trying to get his lungs full again. Someone snickers to his right as Thomas struggles to catch his breath.

“Let’s go, then.” Reynolds says it more like a command than a request, and Three Dots tugs on Thomas’ arms. Thomas tries to stumble forwards, to follow, but he’s quickly yanked off his feet. Thankfully, someone grabs him under his arms and pulls him along that way instead of just pulling on his wrists.

Thomas’ feet scramble against the ground, trying to find purchase and push himself up. He wants to walk, give himself some dignity but each time he almost manages it, something happens and Thomas is knocked off balance again. Reluctantly, he gives up, letting himself get dragged along the uneven pavement.

Thomas just focuses on breathing and listening, hoping for some sort of clue as to where they are. _As if one of them is just going to yell out ‘here we are at XYZ street by ZYX river.’_ _That would be too easy,_ Thomas thinks.

He hears keys jingle and then a door opens. Thomas is pulled into a building, judging by how the floor changes to be smooth and the air cools around him. The door shuts, and Thomas hopes that they’ve reached their destination, but they keep moving.

He can hear more people around him, talking quietly, too quiet to pick out any words. There isn’t a sudden hush so perhaps the sight of a man getting dragged through isn’t entirely uncommon. Which doesn’t seem like a good sign to Thomas. No one calls out to Reynolds or anyone else, and Thomas hears them pass through another door.

“Stand him up boys,” Reynolds says, and Thomas is hauled to his feet. They let him get balanced and settled before letting go of his arms. “Go take a break, you’ve earned it.” Thomas hears the other two men leave, the door slamming shut behind them.

Without warning, the sack is pulled off Thomas’ head and suddenly he’s blinking in an excruciatingly bright light. He screws his eyes shut, unable to stand the light searing into his eyes. Someone grabs his shoulders from behind and pulls him back and down. The back of Thomas’ knees hit something and Thomas is pushed down into a chair.

Before he can do anything, Thomas feels the tell-tale grooves of a rope snake around his middle. A moment later and he’s tied to the chair. Then, through his eyelids, he can tell the light is being moved away. Slowly, Thomas blinks his eyes open to find James Reynolds hovering over him.

“Hands,” Reynolds commands. Glaring, Thomas complies, offering Reynolds his bound wrists. Reynolds raises a box cutter, and a flash of fear courses through Thomas’ veins. But Reynolds only cuts the zip ties in one smooth stroke. Hands suddenly free, Thomas realizes he could go for the knife. Reynolds grabs Thomas’ left wrist, and Thomas takes the opportunity. His right hand shoots out, reaching for the cutter-

His hand doesn’t get very far before another hand- alabaster white in skin tone- closes around his wrist. Another hand comes down on upper arm and forces his hand onto the arm rest. Thomas snaps his head to look at his new assailant, a man hovering just over his shoulder. Sandy blond hair frames brown eyes and Thomas realizes he recognizes him from the Schuyler apartment.

“Tisk, tisk,” clicks Seabury, “Weren’t you ever taught it’s not nice to try and take other people’s things?” Thomas can feel Reynolds finish securing his left wrist to the armrest. Thomas tries to pull his arm away from Seabury, but the man just holds on tighter. Reynolds tugs on the left bindings, decides they’re tight enough, and quickly ties down Thomas’ right wrist.

“You really should be paying more attention to our guest,” Seabury says to Reynolds, who glares at the white man.

“Ankles?” Reynolds grunts. Seabury purses his lips, thinking. He gives a short nod, and Reynolds sighs and drops to his knees. Seabury tilts his head down to look at Thomas.

“Don’t kick now,” Seabury warns. “You won’t like what happens if you do.” Thomas glares up at Seabury, feeling Reynolds pull his feet back and tie them to the chair legs one at a time. Seabury matches his gaze, looking almost bored by the whole proceedings. “James, I thought you said this one was talkative?”

“Normally is,” Reynolds mutters, finishing the last knot on Thomas’ right ankle. He sits back on his haunches and looks up at Thomas, a smirk crawling across his face. “Finished. We can start the fun things now.”

“Hmm, yes.” Seabury takes a step back away from Thomas. “You’re dismissed, though.”

Reynolds snaps his head to look at Seabury questioningly. “What do you mean? I thought you and I were-”

“You had your chance to play with him,” Seabury dismisses him. “It’s my turn.” Reynolds jumps to his feet, looming over Seabury by a couple of inches.

“I was driving!” Reynolds protests. “I’ve only hit him once!’ Seabury shrugs.

“Not my fault.” Despite Reynolds’ superior size, Seabury doesn’t flinch or shrink away from the other man. “Go see if anyone’s looking for him yet.” Reynolds’ eyes widen, face flushing in anger. He opens his mouth to speak again but is cut off by a third voice that sends chills down Thomas’ spine.

“Listen to Sam, James,” King’s accented voice comes from somewhere across the room. Reynolds stiffens, mouth clamping shut. For a second, Thomas thinks Reynolds is going to argue, but the larger man steps back and whirls, heading for the door. Thomas can hear him mutter under his breath as he leaves.

“Kiss-up-fag-whore thinks he can order me around,” Reynolds grumbles, just loud enough for Thomas and Seabury to hear. “I’ve been here longer, _I_ used to be the boss’ favorite…” The rest of his words are lost as Reynolds slams the door behind him. Thomas looks up at Seabury, who is looking at the door with a very pinched expression.

“I’m sorry for his use of slurs,” Seabury says, the apology catching Thomas more than a little off guard. “James tends to be… a little less open-minded than some.”

Thomas has to catch himself before he makes some sort of snarky comment, and Seabury turns around in silence. Thomas watches as the man makes his way across the room, across the way from Thomas, to a small desk and chair Thomas hadn’t noticed before. They had been hidden by the light, then Reynolds himself.

Seabury’s shoes click on the concrete floor as he approaches the chair, the back of which is to Thomas. Seabury trails one hand on the back of the chair, leaning down over it sideways. Thomas can’t hear what Seabury says, but sees his mouth move. A second later, a hand comes up and catches Seabury by the chin, drawing Seabury’s face down past where Thomas can see.

The rest of Seabury’s body follows, and Thomas can see him climb into the chair with whoever else is already there. Seabury uses his arm on the chair to hold himself up, the top of his head poking just above the top of the chair. There’s a quiet muttering, Thomas can’t pick out the words, and then the chair spins around.

Seabury has curled himself onto King’s lap, his head resting on in the space between King’s shoulder and his head. Thomas can see where the two men have intertwined their hands, King’s arms holding Seabury to his body.

“Welcome, Thomas. How are you this morning?” King asks. Thomas frowns.

“Pretty good, you?” he says, sarcasm lacing his words. Seabury frowns, but King moves his head so the sides of their heads are touching. Seabury leans into the contact, as if he’s touch-starved and he and King aren’t already twisted around each other like vines.

“I’m magnificent,” King replies, smiling. He shakes his shoulder and looks down at Seabury. “How about you, love?” Seabury turns his head sideways to lock gazes with King.

“I am wonderful, thank you,” he breathes, mouth tilting up slightly. King chuckles, but complies, pressing his lips to Seabury’s waiting ones. Seabury lets go of King’s head to thread his fingers through King’s short-cropped hair. Their kiss deepens, Seabury pulling King down further into his arms. King reaches down and runs his fingers across Seabury’s hip in a way that makes the man giggle into King’s mouth.

Thomas thinks they’re about ten seconds away from actually fucking on the chair when he finally loses his nerve and coughs. Instantly, Seabury stills, pulling away from King slightly. King chases the other man with his mouth, but Seabury lets go of King’s hair and pushes on his chest softly.

“We have a guest,” Seabury murmurs, jerking his head towards Thomas. King opens his eyes and looks sideways at the captured Thomas, who does his best to wave with his wrist tightly secured. Thomas gives King an awkward smile, the weird feeling in his gut overriding Thomas’ desire to stay impassive.

King just chuckles. “I know, Sammy dear,” he says, pushing Seabury’s hand away from his chest and leaning down to reconnect their lips. Seabury dodges at the last second, silently shaking his head as he slides out of King’s lap. King reaches for Seabury, making little grabby hands in the other man’s direction. Seabury crosses his arms, frowning in disappointment at the man still in the chair.

“No, George,” Seabury says, voice surprisingly hard and commanding. “Not while Agent Jefferson is here.” King pouts, sinking into his chair slightly. “Do not sulk, or I won’t fuck you after we are done with the good Agent.”

Thomas has no idea what to think anymore. This was not what he was expecting to see after being kidnapped and tied to a chair. He watches the exchange with wide eyes, unsure of how this very odd relationship works. _Seabury_ the dominant one? But he had been so submissive earlier…

Thomas shuts his eyes and hangs his head. _No, I don’t want to think about this, don’t want to think about this_ , Thomas repeats in his head like a mantra. _Puppies, kittens, Grandma Jefferson, the sound of nails on a chalkboard, Jesus anything but the two of them doing anything remotely sexy._

“Aww, looks like we’ve got him all riled up,” King coos. Thomas picks his head up slowly, feeling his blush hot across his face. King just smirks at him, head perched on one hand, elbow on the desk. Seabury still looks cross, heel tapping against the ground.

“That was a mean trick to play, George,” Seabury scolds. “Now I’m going to have to punish you later.” Thomas chokes on his own spit, eyes flicking rapidly between the two men. King frowns, giving Seabury one _hell_ of a puppy-dog expression.

“I’m supposed to be in charge when we’re handling business,” King whines.

“ _Business_ does not coincide with the _bedroom_ ,” Seabury admonishes.

Thomas clears his throat. “Y’all could just let me go and get back to… whatever it is you two do,” he suggests. Suddenly, two pairs of cold eyes are on Thomas and Thomas regrets drawing the attention back to him.

“Business first then,” King says, instantly serious again. Seabury nods, his shoulders relaxing, expression turning back on Thomas with a disdainful look in his eyes. King straightens in his chair, returning to the mock-relaxed pose from before. Thomas feels King’s eyes sweep over his body, searching, piercing. Thomas wants to squirm under the gaze, but he forces himself to stay still.

“Apologies for our… distraction,” Seabury says, not sounding sincerely sorry at all. Seabury tugs at his shirt, pulling the dark fabric straight and even again. Thomas doesn’t know if Seabury is actually looking for forgiveness, or _any_ sort of reaction at all, so Thomas forces his features neutral.

“It’s wonderful to have you here, Thomas,” King purrs.

“Forgive me if I’m not particularly thrilled,” Thomas drawls. Seabury’s eyes narrow, but King smiles at Thomas.

“I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to momentarily _forget your place_ in this situation,” King says, the barely concealed warning laced with cold venom.

“I’m just being honest, Georgie.” Thomas matches King’s smile. The game is back on. Something flickers in King’s eyes, and he leans forward on the desk.

“Sam,” King commands. Seabury nods and in a flash is standing in front of Thomas. Thomas doesn’t have time to brace himself before Seabury winds up and slaps him _hard_. Thomas’ head snaps to the side under the force of the blow, cheek stinging harshly. “Thomas,” King says, “You are here to answer my questions and that is it. I have no patience for your attitude.”

Thomas turns his head front again, tilting it so he can see around Seabury to where King is still sitting. “Let’s get to the point then, yeah?” Thomas is rewarded with another slap and a fist to his stomach.

“ _You_ are not in charge here,” Seabury growls. Thomas cocks an eyebrow in his direction.

“I bet _you_ wish you were. Seems like you could be, could bend George-” Thomas sees Seabury’s eyes widen in understanding, following Thomas’ train of thought a few steps ahead. There’s a flicker of rage deep within Seabury’s eyes and Thomas braces himself for another hit. He keeps talking, waiting for it. “-right over that desk there, take control-” Seabury stalks around behind Thomas, and Thomas tries to twist his head to follow. “-do whatever you want and not be ordered around by-” Seabury’s hands come down on Thomas’ left shoulder and elbow. He pushes Thomas’ arm against the wrist bindings, bringing his elbow up, around and forward. “-a submissive, pathetic man. I bet you could wrap King-” Seabury lifts the hand on Thomas’ shoulder and brings it back down forcefully.

Thomas feels his shoulder _shift_ , his muscles erupting into screaming pain almost instantly. He can’t stop the cry that escapes him, his taunts cut off instantly by the expression of pain. Seabury holds his elbow up, and Thomas tries to move his arm away but to no avail. His left arm doesn’t seem to want to respond, even as Seabury pushes Thomas’ elbow further forward.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Thomas yells, watching his arm twist in a way it shouldn’t. It feels like his shoulder is on fire, even after Seabury takes mercy and lets Thomas’ arm fall back against the armrest of the chair. Seabury removes his hands from Thomas’ arm, calming stepping away. His expression is disinterested at best as Thomas looks at his injured arm.

His shoulder looks misshapen, skin dipping oddly at the top of his shoulder, followed by a bump that’s not supposed to be there. The sight of the mangled arm makes Thomas’ stomach twist, the spasming of his muscles in pain doing nothing to help the nausea.

“It’s dislocated,” Seabury explains, voice flat. Thomas tears his eyes away from his own arm to gape at Seabury. King drums his fingers against his desk, looking bored.

“Learned your lesson?” King asks. “No back talk, alright?” Thomas lets out a shaky breath. _These two are serious_ , he realizes, the thought hitting like a freight train. _Intimidation time is over_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, folks. Next chapter isn't going to be fun. Just warning you now.
> 
> Fun fact I wrote the Kingbury makeout in the middle of class one day and almost had to explain myself to my teacher. Fun times. 
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Everything Thomas does in this kidnapping/hostage situation is literally the exact opposite of what you're really supposed to do. Basically, don't be the little sarcastic shit Thomas is, and _never_ provoke your captors.
> 
> Also apparently the Hudson river occasionally has whales in it? I dunno I saw a news story once or twice.


	27. Thomas Gets A Really Nice Mani-Pedi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a great massage too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I am _busy as fuck_ tomorrow!
> 
> On a serious note: This chapter contains legitimate, on-screen, straight up torture. It's not pleasant. It took me two weeks to write this chapter because of it. It also includes a description of a disassociative state. If you need to skip this chapter for any reason, here's a rundown of the plot important pieces (skip this rundown if you don't want spoilers for this chapter):
> 
> King questions Thomas on the whereabouts of Aaron Burr and the Theos until it becomes clear Thomas won't spill. Thomas loses 15 finger and toenails, ten from his feet, five from his right hand. The rest of his body is highly scarred up. Seabury does the entirety of the deed, dismissing Thomas' attempts to console himself through prayer, claiming that 'it won't help, [Seabury] would know.' At some point, Thomas falls into a heavy disassociative episode to cope with the trauma, leading Seabury to give up on getting any information from him. King orders Seabury and Reynolds to give Thomas, still stuck in what's basically a mental coma, back to the Sons/FBI as a message.
> 
> Alright. That's it. See you Saturday.

“Sam, grab your things,” King says, disinterestedly. “Something tells me you might need them.” Seabury nods, turns and starts to head for the desk. Thomas swallows fear in his throat, the reality of the situation hitting him hard.

“What things?” He asks, voice deceptively calm. Instantly, Seabury stops, spins around and comes back to Thomas. He reaches out, grabs Thomas’ dislocated arm by the elbow and pulls it forward again. As Thomas hisses a breath and tries to squirm away- his arm still non-responsive- Seabury clears his throat.

“Speak only when spoken too,” Seabury commands. Thomas nods frantically, his breath coming faster and faster as his shoulder lights up in agony. Seabury lets him go and his arm returns to a resting position. Like this the pain is decreased, bearable, but still there. Once again, Seabury turns away and this time crosses the room to King’s desk. He kneels down on the right side and rummages around inside a cabinet.

“This is how this is going to work, Thomas,” King says, voice clipped, “I’m going you ask you questions, you are going to answer them, and then we can both go on our merry way.” Seabury stands, a black bag in his hands. “Remember, lies and attitude won’t serve you well.”

Thomas swallows, eyeing the closed bag Seabury is holding. Seabury puts it on the desk, opens the top and starts to look through it. Thomas can hear the muffled sounds of metal clinking as Seabury searches the bag for something.

“First question,” King snaps. “Have you found Burr and the girls?”

Thomas tears his eyes away from Seabury and the bag. King looks back at him, idly drumming his fingers on the desk. Thomas coughs. “No,” he says. King’s fingers still for a moment, then resume their tapping.

“I’m going to give you a second chance,” King sighs. “Have you found Burr?”

“I said I haven’t,” Thomas repeats, feeling his stomach churn. One of King’s eyebrows cocks.

“I told you, _lying_ won’t help you here,” King warns.

“I’m _not_ lying.” Thomas keeps eye-contact with King. King’s fingers finally stop beating their strange rhythm and King sits back in his chair.

“Are you familiar with the practice of _Ling Chi?_ ” King asks. Thomas blinks, the sudden topic change throwing him off balance.

“... Can't say I am,” he says, cautiously. Seabury starts pulling things out of the bag, metal tools that Thomas doesn't recognize so far away in the dark. King hums.

“It was invented by the Chinese a very long time ago. Roughly translated, ‘Ling Chi’ means ‘ _death by a thousand cuts.’_ ”

“Does it?” Thomas asks, watching Seabury gather up his things in one hand.

“Yes. It was used as an execution method for hundreds of years. Poor, hapless criminals would be slowly carved up into little pieces in the town square over a period of _days_.”

Seabury crosses the floor to Thomas, and Thomas tries to see what he's holding. There’s a knife, which is unsurprising, but he's also carrying a set of pliers, a collection of very thin wires, a lighter and what looks to be some sort of mesh net.

“Luckily, or unluckily for them, for ancient Chinese criminals, most of the horror of Ling Chi was about what happened _after_ death. See, most victims died within the first few hours, with the majority being killed in the first strike. Ling Chi was more about the desecration of the body, which was a big no-no under Confucianism. There are reasons why, you really should look into it. It's pretty interesting.”

Seabury comes to a stop in front of Thomas, barely sparing the tied up man a second glance as he kneels and puts everything in his hands on the ground. Thomas watches in terrified confusion as Seabury reaches up and starts to untie his left shoe.

“But that's not the point. The point is that, traditionally, people were killed fairly quickly. You, however, will not be afforded such a luxury.”

Thomas starts, his eyes torn away from Seabury in shock. “You intend to kill me?” He croaks out. Thomas had started to assume he would be kept alive, and though perhaps such a hope was foolish. King chuckles.

“No, not yet at least. You see, when performed by someone skilled at the art, non-fatal Ling Chi can be a very… effective interrogation method.” King motions at the crouching man in front of Thomas’ chair. “Sam is very practiced, as you'll come to see.”

Seabury lets out a chuckle as he tugs Thomas' shoe and sock off, tossing both aside without a second thought. Thomas’ eyes widen, he struggles to pull his now-bare foot away but it's tied securely to the chair leg. Thomas feels the rope tug at his skin, pulling and tearing little pinpricks of pain on his ankle.

Seabury, unperturbed by Thomas’s struggle, sits back, picks up a length of wire and the lighter. Lighting the flame, Seabury hold the middle of the wire over the flame, watching as it quickly heats up. Thomas sees the metal faintly start to glow, and Seabury slowly bends the wire so the heated part sticks out in a loop.

“Prepared, Sammy?” King asks. Seabury nods, holding the heated wire in one hand and grabbing Thomas' foot with the other. His hand is cold, but firm as Samuel runs his thumb across Thomas’ toes.

“Alright Thomas. Once again: Have you found Burr?”

Thomas looks down at Seabury’s crouched form, at the wire in his hands, and back up at King. King looks expectant, like he thinks Thomas will break under the threat of pain. Seabury’s face is impassive, though there is a glimmer of excitement there. Thomas grits his jaw. _I can handle a few burns_.

“I have not,” Thomas replies. King’s face falls while Seabury’s lights up in glee. Thomas braces himself, ready to feel the burn of hot metal against his skin, determined not to break eye-contact with King.

“Sam,” King commands. Seabury grins, and moves the wire closer to Thomas’ foot. His other hand wraps around his toes so that Seabury is holding out his big toe between two fingers.

Thomas prepares himself, sucking in a breath, muscles clenching.

The wire hits the tip of Thomas’ toe and he bites back a wince. It sears, but it's gone in a second. For a moment, Thomas is confused. _That’s it? That's all?_ He feels himself start to relax. _This won’t be so bad--_

Then the wire is pushed under his toenail.

It's _excruciating_ , the burning heat and metal between the nail and nail bed. Thomas feels Seabury work the wire back and forth, pushing it farther and farther towards the base of the nail.

Thomas can't stop the sharp inhale, the cry of pain he lets out as he curls in on himself. Thomas’ good hand flexes against the arm of the chair and he tries to pull his foot away from the pain.

After what seems like forever, but was probably closer to a few seconds, the wire is pulled out roughly. The burning is still there but Thomas can breathe again. _How the_ fuck _does that hurt so bad??!_ He wonders.

But it's not over as Thomas feels something else slide into the now loosened nail bed. He screams, eyes flying open unintentionally and he sees that Seabury has taken up the pliers now, one end stuck into Thomas’s toe.

Thomas shuts his eyes again as Seabury starts to work the pliers along the underside of his nail, reaching the very base of it quickly. Thomas can feel the blood start to well already, even before Seabury begins to tug.

Seabury pulls on Thomas’ nail sideways, wiggling and working it until it comes free with a sickeningly wet, sucking noise. Something between a whimper and a groan escapes his lips, but he bites down on anything louder. Thomas feels blood well on his skin.

Thomas hears Seabury put the pliers back down on the ground, waits to see if anything else is going to happen before letting out a cautious breath. He pointedly turns his face up before opening his eyes again. His entire foot is screaming. _Jesus fuck._ Thomas focuses on calming his breathing back down.

“So, have you found Burr now?” King asks, voice dripping in false innocence. Thomas, breath hissing through his teeth, grabs onto the armrest with his one working hand. He looks down far enough to make eye-contact with the Redcoat boss.

“Fuck off,” he spits. Seabury doesn’t wait for King’s command to set to work on the second toe on Thomas’ foot. All Seabury has to do it nudge Thomas’ foot and waves of fire travel all the way up his body, so to have the entire process repeated for a second time is indescribable. Thomas can’t hold the screams back as Seabury methodically removes another nail.

“Have you found Burr?”

“...no.”

Thomas lets loose a series of expletives to get through the third one. There are tears rolling down his cheeks despite his best efforts.

“Thomas, I am perfectly aware that you have indeed found Aaron.”

“If you’re so sure, why keep asking?”

The wire goes under, stays there for a while as King speaks again.

“I want to hear you admit it to me.”

“Good luck, I haven’t found them.”

The last two nails come off in quick succession, the last toe not even getting the wire treatment before Seabury goes for it with the pliers.

Thomas can smell his own blood, feel it dripping down past his damaged skin and hears it dripping onto the floor. He doesn’t want to look, even as Seabury shifts and reaches for his other shoe.

There’s a buzzing in the back of Thomas’ mind, one that grows with each new stab of pain. Thomas’ other shoe and sock comes off, but Thomas is barely paying attention to the sensation. His entire foot is paralyzed in pain.

 _How the hell am I ever going to walk again?_ He wonders, chest heaving. He almost misses King’s next question.

“How many more until you admit the truth to me?” King wonders, holding his head in his hand and looking particularly bored.

“I’ve been telling the truth,” Thomas gasps, though the conviction is all but lost. If all three men hadn’t known Thomas was lying already, the truth is plain in the way his voice fails him at the end.

“Mhm,” King hums. This time, Seabury goes for the smallest toe first.

“Where are Burr and my things?” King asks. The topic change almost trips up Thomas in his half-sensory dead state.

“I wouldn’t know,” he breathes, “seeing as _I haven’t found them yet_.”

“That’s two lies in one sentence,” King observes. Seabury nods, and then two more of Thomas’ nails are gone. Thomas can’t even feel his left foot anymore, and his right is starting to go numb.

Thomas has never felt more grateful to have his feet fall asleep on him. The buzzing is getting louder, threatening to overpower Thomas’ senses.

Seabury must sense what’s happening because he presses the hot wire into the flesh of Thomas’ arm and suddenly the buzzing recedes. Thomas’ entire body jerks, flinching away from the burning metal on instinct.

“Pay attention or I’ll up the methodology early,” Seabury warns, settling back down onto the floor. Thomas feet both wake up in fiery agony as Seabury tugs on them harshly.

“Where is Burr?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas croaks out. Thomas barely even feels this nail go. _It’s ironic,_ Thomas thinks, his mind surprisingly objective, _I really don’t know where they are for sure._ “I don’t know, I swear.”

Seabury sighs, foregoing the wire to simply tear the last nail out piece by bloody piece. The tears return as Thomas lets out a choked sob. Seabury stands, wiping his bloodied hands on Thomas’ pant legs.

 _At least that’s over,_ Thomas thinks, _no more nails_ _to tear out_.

“Which hand is your dominant one?” Seabury asks. Thomas stomach plummets, a little whimper escapes him. Seabury holds up the wire and lighter again, reheating the metal. “I’m asking so I can go for the other one. I won’t destroy your writing hand, I’m not a monster.”

Thomas almost feels like laughing. “Ambidextrous” he mutters, surprising himself that he answered honestly. “I’m ambidextrous.” Seabury nods and eyes Thomas’ arms.

“I’ll do the right one then, seeing as you’ve already injured your left arm.”

“How merciful,” Thomas says, instantly regretting it as Seabury shoves the wire under his pinky nail.

“You just won’t learn, will you Thomas?” King asks, sounding like he’s simply scolding a puppy. Seabury leaves the wire in place, and Thomas feels it burn into his skin. “One last time. Answer wrong again, and I’ll just have to leave you and Sam alone for a while. Until he loosens your tongue.” King rises from his chair, looming over the desk. “ _Where is Burr?_ ”

“I honestly, _truly do not know._ ”

Seabury rips the wire out from under Thomas’ nail and jabs the pliers underneath. This one comes off slowly, centimeter by centimeter. Thomas screams as his hand joins his feet in searing agony. Seabury finally tugs the last bit of nail free, and drops it onto the floor.

“Finish off the hand, I’ll be back. Break him a little,” King commands. Seabury nods, reaching for Thomas’ hand again. King crosses the room, giving Thomas and Seabury a wide berth, and leaves out the door.

\-------------

Thomas doesn’t know how long it takes Seabury to take the rest of his right hand nails, but it feels like hours. The final one comes off, tiny little strips of a thumb nail being pulled off one at a time.

Thomas doesn’t look, choosing to turn his head to the side and mutter prayers to himself. He focuses on the words, forcing himself to start over each time a flash of pain makes him stutter or mess up.

“Asking for God’s help won’t do anything here,” Seabury says, dropping the last scraps of fingernail onto the floor. “Believe me, I’d know.”

Thomas doesn’t dare ask what Seabury means. Seabury holds Thomas’ ruined fingers, appraises his work for a moment before letting them drop onto the chair. Seabury finally puts the pliers and strips of wire onto the floor and picks up the mesh and knife. Thomas can’t help his curiosity, he _needs_ to know what sort of fresh pain awaits him, so he watches silently as Seabury pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, presses the mesh hard to his arm so little parts of skin stick out, and lines the knife up with the top of it.

Seabury cuts down, slicing off parts of Thomas’ flesh and suddenly the buzzing is back. Thomas watches as blood wells and starts to flow freely down his arm. Seabury pulls the mesh away and affixes it to another portion of skin. _Ling Chi, hapless criminals would be slowly carved up into little pieces,_ Thomas remembers King explaining.

The buzzing gets louder with each fresh cut. At some point, Seabury gets bored with what skin he can reach by just manipulating fabric and forces Thomas’ chest forward so he can cut open his shirt from the back. Seabury forgoes the mesh as he moves to the tighter portions of skin across Thomas’ shoulders, simply carving little pieces of flesh with expert flicks of the wrist.

At some point, the buzzing gets so loud Thomas’ vision starts to blur and mute in front of him. He stops being able to feel anything but his own blood trailing down his body. When Seabury comes back around front, it’s a surprise. Thomas had lost track of where he was. He barely reacts though, even as Seabury eyes him curiously.

“Not praying anymore?” The man asks, but it’s muted. The words barely process. Seabury reaches up and snaps his fingers in front of Thomas’ face. He frowns, and digs the knife into Thomas’ dislocated shoulder.

It’s a welcome relief, falling into the strange nothing.

The buzzing turns into an all-encompassing noise. His entire thought process goes silent. It’s almost like he’s not in his own head anymore. Thomas feels himself float just outside of his body, a little to the left and up. He barely exists, just watches Seabury pull the knife out, make some more hand motions and sigh. He’s moving like someone turned on slow-motion for the universe. Seabury reaches up and presses two fingers to Thomas’ neck.

“Well,” Seabury mutters, “he’s alive at least.” Thomas _hears_ him speak, but it’s muted like Seabury is speaking through water. The words don’t make an impact on what is left of Thomas’ mental state.

Thomas watches Seabury stand, cross the room and disappear from sight. He doesn’t turn his head to follow, doesn’t even feel like his head is his to turn. Nothing feels real anymore, like Thomas is watching some disturbing dream or show on television.

After what seems like literal days of staring into nothing, Seabury returns. King trails behind him, bending over to look Thomas dead in the eye. Except Thomas doesn’t feel like they’re making eye contact.

“Told you, he’s gone.” Seabury crosses his arms. King turns back to look at the other man.

“How long until he recovers?” King asks, voice even further muted by the fact his face is turned away from Thomas.

“It could be a few minutes, could be a few years,” Seabury replies. “Could be never.” King turns back around to examine Thomas again. His lips are pursed in thought. “Should I just kill him?”

King shakes his head. “If he’s still breathing… why don’t you give him back to his people. Stick a little bow on his head and make him a little gift.”

“Are you sure?” Seabury asks.

“Of course! Send another little message. Whomever takes over for him will know we killed one Agent and broke another. Maybe the next one will be more willing to negotiate.” King stands up, spins on one heel and starts to walk away. “Tell Reynolds to put him back where he found him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this wouldn't be fun. I warned you. This chapter is the reason why I'm on government watch lists.
> 
> All of y'all: "RESCUE TIME!!!"
> 
> Me: "nah."
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Ling Chi is an actual thing, but not how you probably picture it. Chinese criminals would be tied to a post in the middle of town, whipped and carved up into tiny pieces. But, like King mentions, most of them would die on the first blow (typically a stab to the heart) or within the first hour of torture. The punishment was meant more as a deterrent to others as the carving up of your body after death was a major issue in Confucianism. Any depictions of it as an actual torture technique are highly exaggerated (yes, including mine), and the overblown story of Ling Chi was spread as an attempt to paint Chinese culture as savage and backward to Europeans.
> 
> See you Saturday.


	28. This Is Probably Not What Alexander Was Expecting To Happen Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people start to find out what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter (and most of the rest of them) deals with the aftermath of torture. This one in specific is detailed with injury and a dissassociative state. I don't think it's bad enough to warrant a plot rundown, but if you need one, don't be afraid to ask!

Thomas is dragged out of the warehouse- because it is a warehouse, they don’t bother covering his eyes with a sack this time- by the same two burly redcoats that dragged him in. He continues to float, thoughtlessly, just above his own body. His eyes remain fixed to the ground, almost unblinking. His shoes are back on his feet but he feels like they’re not even really there. Reynolds and Seabury lead the way out to the same van and Reynolds throws open the back doors.

Thomas is pulled inside and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. He doesn’t do anything to stop his fall, just hits the deck and lies there. He doesn’t feel like his limbs would answer to him if he tried.

The doors shut with two _thuds_ , and Thomas stares at a little spot on the wall of the van. Two more doors open and shut, and Seabury and Reynolds are sitting in the front seat.

“Yo, James. This guy alright?” One of the redcoats asks. Thomas thinks he might poke Thomas on the back slightly, but he doesn’t _really_ feel it.

“Do you really care?” Reynolds shoots back.

“Nah, but he’s kinda… fucked up.” The Redcoat waves a hand in front of Thomas’ face.

“Yes. Yes he is,” Seabury replies simply. The car starts, Thomas can barely feel the gentle rumbling under his body.

“We only had him for four hours,” the redcoat says. Thomas feels the car lurch into motion, his limp body rocking with the movement. Searbuy just hums an affirmation, and the car falls silent.

Somehow, in the quiet, Thomas manages to focus on the gentle movement of the van, the vibrations in his body make the buzzing quiet ever so slightly. It’s comforting, the simple rocking. The fingers on his right hand tingle a little, like they’re the first part of his body to wake up.

Thomas doesn’t dare try to move though. Even in his grey state, he knows that’s not a good idea.

“Reynolds, pull over,” Seabury says, suddenly.

“Why? We’re nowhere _near_ … oh.” Reynolds chuckles. “Gotcha.” A few more moments pass before the car stops, but the gentle rumbling doesn’t. Thomas is grateful for that, he can still latch onto it.

“Alexander!” Seabury calls. His voice is distant, but Thomas can still hear if not completely process what’s happening. There’s a shrill whistle, then, “Alexander! Over here! How you doing?”

“Seabury?” A familiar voice snarls. It hits Thomas’ ears and something inside him reacts. An emotion sparks- Relief? Joy? It’s something other than the nothing. “What the fuck are you doing in _our_ territory?”

“Oh, Reynolds and I were actually on our way to see you! Kind of. We’ve got a gift for you.” Seabury laughs at something. “No, no, we’re not going to hurt you, it’s not that kind of gift.”

“Boys,” Reynolds commands. “Delivery time.” Thomas is roughly nudged and he _thinks_ he groans. The doors are pushed open and sunlight streams into the back of the van.

“No, believe me, you’re going to _love_ this,” Seabury says as one of the Redcoats slides his hands under Thomas’ middle. The other grabs Thomas’ ankles and Thomas is slid towards the open doors.

He lets it happen, lets one of the Redcoats pull him up and over their shoulder like a sack. “Up we go, big boy,” the Redcoat mumbles. Thomas’ face hits the man’s back, but the feeling of fresh air is suddenly far too overwhelming. He feels the man’s footsteps as he’s walked to the sidewalk.

“Where do you want ‘im?” the Redcoat asks.

“Just put him on the ground,” Seabury calls. “See if he’ll stand.” Thomas feels his feet get put on the ground, and his torso pushed up into a standing position. The moment he’s let go of, however, when he’s ‘standing’ on his own, his legs instantly give out and he crumples to the ground.

He lands on his left side, the impact sending searing shots of pain through his body that make the buzzing recede even further. He actually feels the sharp inhale he makes, feels the air enter his lungs and for a flash, everything hurts. Then the buzzing returns enough to take the pain away. It helps, Thomas supposes, that his body naturally flinches away from the pain and falls onto his back.

“Thomas?” Someone, the voice that made the emotion appear, gasps. The sky is blindingly bright and Thomas has to shut his eyes. It’s too overwhelming.

“Have fun,” Seabury laughs. Thomas hears the van take off, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes or turn his head. He hears someone hit the ground beside him though.

“Holy shit, no. No, no no no no _no._ ” There are hands on Thomas’ shoulders, pulling harshly and Thomas feels his shoulder shift, but there’s no pain. Thomas gasps, and the someone lets out a breath of relief.

“What did they do to you Thomas?” The voice asks, full of rage and concern. The sound of it wakens Thomas enough so the buzzing fades again, enough so that Thomas can open his eyes.

The man leaning over him is Hamilton. Of course it is. Thomas’ eyes focus for the first time in a while, zeroing in on his face.

“What did they do?!’ Hamilton insists. Thomas’s eyes drift back out of focus as Hamilton grips his shoulder hard enough to elicit a slight twinge of pain. “No, look at me, _mírame_.” Thomas feels himself dropping back into the nothing. “ _Coño,_ Thomas.”

Hamilton pulls Thomas up into his lap. “ _Hey, hey, te tengo, mírame, di algo._ ” Thomas hears nothing but keening gibberish, the sound of it muffled and far away. “ _Hey! Hay alguien aquí? Necesito ayuda!_ ” Thomas feels the body underneath him shift, his head is propped up a bit further.

“ _Coño, ayuda! Por favor!_ ” Hamilton yells, but there’s no response, no sound of people approaching. Hamilton grips Thomas tighter and looks down at him. One of the hands disappears from Thomas’ shoulders, Hamilton pulling out his phone and frantically fumbling with it.

“ _John! John, necesito tu ayuda, por favor, le hicieron daño. No está respondiendo, hay demasiada sangre- ay dio mio..._ ” Thomas’ head shifts in Hamilton’s arms, his face pressing into Hamilton’s chest. He can barely feel the fabric beneath his cheek, but his good shoulder becomes squashed against the man’s stomach. Faintly, he can hear a distant thudding, Hamilton’s panicked heartbeat. “ _La intercesión entre ciento veintinueve y fifth, apúrate._ ”

Hamilton tosses his phone aside and pulls Thomas in closer. The action causes Thomas’ dislocated shoulder to shift, and this time he _does_ feel it. The grinding noise is sickening, and Thomas screams at the sensation. Or he thinks he does, maybe it’s just the overwhelming buzzing in his head. Hamilton holds on tighter.

“ _Shhh, mi Thomas, vas ha estar bien, yo te tengo. No te pueden hacer más daño mi amor. Quédate conmigo, por favor. Di algo, lo que sea, ay dio._ ” Hamilton gently runs his hands through Thomas’ hair, pulling it away from his face. “ _Háblame, por favor háblame, mi amor._ ”

Hamilton’s continued nonsense words don’t process in Thomas’ head. The quiet rhythm and cadence manages to cut through the buzzing, however, and Thomas latches on to the sound of it. It’s soothing, calling Thomas back into his own body. The closer he gets to coming back, however, the stronger the pain across his body gets, and Thomas is pushed away again.

Hamilton rocks slowly, back and forth, crooning low nothings. He’s very warm, and the feeling of his fingers running through his hair is grounding. Thomas manages to focus his eyesight, and instantly he’s drawn to the human face above him. Hamilton stares at him, eyes wide, red rimmed and wet. “ _Thomas? Me puedes escuchar? Di algo, por favor-_ ”

Then Thomas hears another set of voices, these calling from a distance. “Alex? _Alexander?_ ”

“ _Aquí! Estamos aquí!_ ” Hamilton calls back, the relief in his voice palpable despite the nonsense he’s speaking.

“Alex! Are you okay?” Someone calls, footsteps grow nearer, then: “ _Clark?_ ”

“ _Por favor, necesita ayuda, le hicieron daño, le hicieron daño a mi Thomas._ ”

“ _Que pasó?”_ Another voice, the same gibberish.

“ _No sé, dama ayúdalo, John por favor._ ”

“Is he non-responsive?” Another voice asks. Thomas has regained enough awareness to know it’s Lafayette speaking. His guess is confirmed a second later when Laf themself appears in his field of vision. “What do we do?” Lafayette asks, looking up at Laurens. Laurens’ eyes flick up and down Thomas’ body.

“We need to get him somewhere safe,” Laurens says.

“But where? How? And what happens when we get there?” Lafayette shoots back.

“I don’t know! It depends on what state he’s in.” Laurens slowly reaches out, watching Thomas’ face for any sign that he doesn’t want to be touched. Thomas’ eyes are still fixated on Hamilton’s. They really are nice eyes. Grounding.

Laurens’ hand comes down on Thomas’ chest and Thomas’ body jerks slightly, curling into Hamilton’s arms. Instantly, Laurens snatches his hand away and Hamilton goes back to muttering nonsense into Thomas’ ear.

“Nearest place I can think of is the boss’,” Laf mutters

“Great. That’s where we take him.” Laurens stands, looking up and down the street. “How, though?”

“I can probably carry him,” Lafayette offers.

“We don’t know what kind of shape he’s in,” Laurens counters. “He’s covered in blood, Laf.”

“Even more reason to get moving.” Lafayette comes over, gently pushes Laurens out of the way and reaches for Thomas. “You might need to help me lift him. Grab his legs.”

Hamilton’s grip on Thomas tightens, somehow pulling Thomas even further into his embrace. “ _No, no te lo lleves, as mío. Me necesita._ ”

“ _Alexander, quieres que lo ayudemos, si?_ ” Laurens speaks. “ _Tienes que dejar que Laf lo carge._ ”

“ _Le vas hacer daño! Tiene que quedarse conmigo._ ”

“ _Laf no le va hacer daño. Vamo Alex, o se va desangre en la calle._ ”

Slowly, reluctantly, Hamilton loosens his hold on Thomas. Instantly, Lafayette wraps their arms around Thomas, pulling him up and away. Laurens helps Lafayette lift Thomas into their arms bridal-style. Lafayette holds him from the left, however, and the buzzing is dim enough that Thomas’ shoulder screams in pain when it’s crushed against Lafayette’s chest.

Thomas vaguely hears himself keen lowly, his body rocking away from the contact instinctively. Lafayette has to scramble to keep Thomas in their arms. Hamilton rushes from the other side to keep Thomas off the ground.

“ _Te lo dije!_ ” Hamilton screeches, but the other two men ignore him. “I told you, give him back!” For the first time, Hamilton’s words make sense, even if they don’t fully land.

“Fuck, look at his shoulder,” Laurens mutters. Lafayette nods.

“Turn him around then. His other shoulder looks… better, at the very least.”

Thomas ends up turned around in Lafayette’s hold, head against their shoulder. His ruined hand is cradled on his stomach, his fingertips throbbing slightly. His other arm is carefully tucked around his stomach so his shoulder doesn’t jostle too much with each step Lafayette takes. The feeling of Lafayette’s heartbeat starts to cut through the buzzing, and the pain in Thomas’ fingers and feet starts to remerge.

He feels himself whimper as Lafayette stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk and his shoes hit the edge of his toes. The fire in his feet pulls Thomas even further back into himself. He wants this whole thing to stop, he wants to go back into the buzzing. He wants… he wants…

“Hamilton,” Thomas mutters, quietly. It’s barely a whisper, his mouth barely moves when he says it, but he says it nonetheless.

“What?” Lafayette asks, head tilting down, an obvious invitation for Thomas to repeat himself.

“Did he say something?” Hamilton asks, urgently. Thomas is still too far gone to really think about what he’s asking for when he repeats:

“ _Hamilton._ ” Thomas can’t even fathom why, but it’s all he wants.

“He said your name, _mon lion_ ,” Lafayette says, quietly, as if he’s scared loud noises will scare Thomas into silence again.

“Really?” Hamilton croaks out. A hand grabs at Thomas’ foot and pain flairs. Thomas instinctively kicks, his first major movement since the buzzing took over. The hand disappears, but comes back down further up his leg, holding Thomas still.

“I’m here, _mon doudou,_ I’m here,” Hamilton says, quietly. The hand squeezes Thomas’ shin and Thomas manages to pick up his half-lidded gaze to look. Hamilton peers at him, worry shining his in eyes, over Thomas’ bent knees.

“Hamilton,” Thomas breathes. Slowly, his picks up his right hand, and reaches towards the short man. He can’t make it, his hand falls just past his knees, but he wants nothing but to touch that handsome face, to wipe away the tears shining in Hamilton’s eyes. He just about _needs_ it, he needs Hamilton more than he needs anything else.

Hamilton takes his hand off Thomas’ leg to reach for his hand. He too can barely reach, but his fingers interlace with the very tips of Thomas’. The contact and pressure send waves of fire up Thomas’ arm. Thomas doesn’t mind, even as the buzzing grows again. He fights it now, knows he _needs_ to fight it.

Sounds are starting to return in force now. He can hear John speaking to himself… no, he’s on the phone. That makes more sense.

“Ma’am, it’s an emergency, I wouldn’t be asking otherwise…” John begs. “...just, clean off a table or countertop. Something big enough to hold someone taller than Laf… no, not a bed. I need a _table_ …”

Hamilton is doing his best to keep up with Lafayette’s long, quick strides and keep his hand attached to Thomas’. Hamilton must be able to see the focus and awareness start to return to Thomas’ face because he starts talking.

“Hey, you coming back to us?” Hamilton asks. Thomas nods, his mouth still unable to work besides:

“Hamilton?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’ve got you. We’re going to fix you up,” Hamilton promises. “But you gotta tell us what they did to you.”

Thomas blinks, opens his mouth but the memories start to hit and the buzzing surges in volume. He squeezes his fingers together tightly, trying to hold on to Hamilton’s, but he’s losing control of his body again. He’s slipping out of himself, he can’t fight it, can't, he needs-

“No, Thomas, stay with us.” Hamilton squeezes back and Thomas focuses on the pain. It pulls him back, enough so his eyes are able to refocus on Hamilton. _Hamilton_. Alexander Hamilton.

“Hamilton,” he mutters again. Hamilton’s eyes shining in worry, opens his mouth again but Lafayette cuts him off.

“I think that’s all we’re going to get out of him right now, Alex.”

“But we need to know-”

“We’ll know when John and the good lady get a look at him.” Lafayette still speaks softly, tries to walk as smoothly as possible on cracked city sidewalks.

“But-”

“We’re almost there, Alex,” John cuts in. “See, right there. That condo building.”

“Thomas,” Lafayette mutters a moment later. “I have to go up a couple of stairs, okay?” Thomas doesn’t respond, but shuts his eyes tight and wait for the jolting motion. When it comes, he can _feel_ his dislocated shoulder shift position again. He distantly hears someone groan, maybe himself, and Hamilton squeezing his hand.

Laurens doesn't even get a chance to knock before the door flies open and a woman’s voice says “Come on, then. Bring him in.”

Thomas feels the sun’s heat disappear from his skin as Lafayette carries him into the cool condo. Instantly, he curls on himself. Lafayette adjusts for his change in position, accidentally pulling Hamilton’s hand out of Thomas’.

“Are you alright?” Hamilton asks. The reaffirmation that he's still there despite the loss of physical connection emboldens Thomas enough for him to mutter his second word since being dropped off.

“Cold,” he says.

“Ma’am,” Laurens starts, but the woman speaks again.

“I already turned the heat up. It'll take a minute.” The woman leads them down a hall. “You said he was nonverbal.”

“That's only his second word,” Laurens explains.

“I cleared off the kitchen table for you, it should be tall enough- George!” The woman yells. Thomas winces. “Since when have you been home?!”

“Sorry dear,” comes Washington’s deep rumble. “I came in the back a minute ago. I was wondering where you were-”

“Nevermind that! Get your damn coat off the table!” The woman commands. Thomas hears the sound of fabric hitting the floor and then Lafayette carries him through another doorway. “On the table, quickly,” the woman orders.

Lafayette goes to comply, gently putting Thomas down on a flat, hard surface. He groans as his heels catch on the table and his toes are jammed into the top of his shoes. He can feel them squelch with blood, like he had stepped in a puddle, not bled profusely in them.

“What’s going on?” Yet another voice asks.

“Phillip?” Laurens asks, shock evident in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to the boss about Eaker… is that Clark?”

“What happened?” Washington asks.

“Honestly? We have no idea.” Laurens is leaning over Thomas, obviously trying to figure out where to start. “Ask Alex.”

“He’s bleeding on my table Mr. Laurens,” the woman says, tersely.

“Right… scissors,” Laurens decides. “We need to get his shirt off.” Thomas hears people shuffle around him, and then someone grabs at his feet. Thomas looks down long enough to watch Laurens wiggle his shoe off. The man literally gasps when Thomas’ blood soaked sock is revealed. “Fuck,” he mutters, reaching for the other shoe but removing it much gentler than the last one.

“ _Language,_ Laruens. Scissors,” the woman says, handing them to Laurens. She’s shorter than Laurens, with slim shoulders and thin braids in a bun at the back of her head. Her face is set in determination as Laurens hooks one finger in Thomas’ sock and cuts the fabric away. Thomas has a guess as to what his feet look like and he doesn’t want to check and see if he’s right. So he shuts his eyes tight, wincing as Laurens’ hands run over his toes to see how bad it really is.

“Jesus fuck,” Hamilton breathes. His voice is too far away for Thomas’ liking. He turns his head and opens his eyes. Hamilton is standing, wide-eyed, next to Philip and Laf on the other side of a nice kitchenette.

“Alexander,” the woman snaps.

“Hamilton,” Thomas says. Instantly, Hamilton is at his side, standing by his head.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” Hamilton says, one hand sliding into Thomas’ right.

“It’s basically all he’s said,” Lafayette explains, but Thomas doesn’t care about what’s happening past Hamilton’s face.

“I think the back of it’s already cut open,” the woman says. By the sound of her voice, he’s standing on the opposite side of the table, facing Hamilton.

“Makes our job easier,” Laurens grunts, going to work on cutting Thomas’ shirt up in strips. Laurens pulls the blood-covered fabric away from Thomas’ chest, muttering to himself as he really gets a look at what state Thomas is in.

“Nothing looks too deep…” the woman trails, “besides the one on his bad shoulder.”

“Bandages and disinfectant might be all we can do,” Laurens sighs. “That and set the dislocation.”

“You gotta wake up, okay?” Hamilton croons, running his free hand through Thomas’ hair. “You _have_ to come back to us. You’re stronger than this.”

Hamilton’s eyes shine through the haze of Thomas’ muted vision. Thomas’ eyes are glued to them as Laurens and the woman move around him.

“Okay,” Laurens says. “Alex, you’re going to have to help me sit him up.” Hamilton squeezes Thomas’ hand.

“Sure.” Hamilton slides his free hand under Thomas’ good shoulder. Slowly, painfully, Thomas is pulled into a sitting position, sheer pain of his damaged skin moving and stretching bringing the buzzing back to the forefront of his mind. Laurens puts his hands on Thomas’ arm, one hand under his arm and the other on his wrist.

“On three, I’m going to push it back into place,” Laurens explains. “You’re going to keep him as still as possible.” Hamilton nods his understanding, reaching around to hold Thomas still by the waist. Thomas feels himself press into Hamilton’s chest, can hear the other man’s heartbeat even through the haze. It’s pounding like a jackhammer. “Alright. One, two… three!”

Laurens pushes sharply on Thomas’ arm and Thomas _screams_. He can hear bone grind against bone and his entire arm feels like it’s on fire. The buzzing grows deafening. The next second, Thomas’ shoulder _pops_ back into place with a sickening noise and Thomas blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my lovely Dominican girlfriend who translated all the Spanish and is better than a mannequin in every way. Love you, baby!
> 
> If anyone wants the translations, ask!
> 
> And I know this chapter's pretty short but the next few are hella long.
> 
> See you Saturday!


	29. The Charlotte Story: I Can't Believe I'm Implying That Thomas Jefferson Had A Thing For John Wilkes Booth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I need to sit down and reevaluate my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Once again: mentions of graphic torture, including a short flashback/nightmare sequence right at the beginning. It lasts for about the first five paragraphs, and takes up the completely intaliziced text at the top.

_Seabury pushes the thickest wire Thomas has ever seen under Thomas’ nail. It burns red-hot, searing his skin. Seabury laughs as Thomas screams, begs, pleads for him to stop._

_Seabury pushes the wire farther back, it catches under the nail root and slides under the skin._

_“Thomas…” Seabury sings, mockingly. Thomas squirms, tries to pull his hand away but it’s tied tightly to the chair. “Look at me!” Thomas complies without wanting to, looking down at the man destroying his hand._

_Hamilton looks back at him, a calm smile on his face. Thomas can’t contain the gasp, the tears of betrayal welling in his eyes._

_“Thomas!” Hamilton says, laughing, pushing the wire up Thomas’ finger-_

Thomas wakes up screaming. There are hands on his, gripping tightly. Thomas tries to pull away, they won’t let go, they won’t leave him be, _Seabury’s gonna-_

“Thomas, it was just a dream!” Hamilton says, holding onto Thomas’ hands as hard as he dares. Thomas blinks, muscles still tense, ready to kick and fight his way out if he has to. His shoulder, hand and chest are all in bright hot pain.

“Hamilton?” Thomas ventures, still unsure. It’s almost too dark to see.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Hamilton says, light from the one uncovered window illuminating half his face. “You’re okay, you’re safe,” he mutters, keeping eye contact with Thomas. “It was just a nightmare.”

Thomas swallows thickly, glancing about quickly. He realizes he’s on a leather couch, in a huge shirt he’s all but drowning in but still feeling constricted. A blanket is twisted up around his stomach, feeling almost as tight as the ropes that had bound him to the chair-

Hamilton squeezes Thomas’ hands. Thomas winces as it sends a little flash of pain shooting up his arm. Hamilton immediately realizes his mistake, letting Thomas’ hands go quickly.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t want to grab your shoulder or anything,” Hamilton explains. “You were thrashing about pretty hard. You almost hit the lamp.” Hamilton points to the aforementioned lamp on an end table by the couch. “Are you back with me?” Hamilton asks. Thomas, breath coming in harsh gasps, looks at him uncomprehendingly. He goes to speak, but just ends up coughing.

“Where am I?” Thomas croaks, his throat dry. Hamilton blinks. He’s squatting on the floor, just by where Thomas’ head had been. The pillow is on the floor, tossed off to the side sometime during the night.

“The Washington’s,” Hamilton says.

“How did I get here?” Thomas’ throat burns as he talks. Hamilton’s eyebrows furrow, bottom lip between his teeth.

“Seabury dropped you at my feet and I called John. Laf carried you here. What all do you remember?” Hamilton asks. Thomas frowns, trying to think back.

“I don’t-” Thomas coughs again, hands flying to his throat. His right hand screams in agony as he moves it, and Thomas looks down at it. White bandages, stained slightly red, are wrapped around his fingers tightly. _How…_

It hits him like a ten ton weight.

“Seabury,” he breathes. His stomach starts to churn as the memories come flooding back. “...knife in the shoulder,” he mutters, his parched throat doing him no favors. “Then I woke up here.”

Thomas looks up at Hamilton, whose expression is obviously carefully guarded. “That’s all?” He asks. Thomas grimaces.

“Well, there’s a lot before the knife in the shoulder,” he says. “Can I have water?”

Hamilton jumps up. “Yeah, of course!” He steps back and away from the couch. Thomas follows him with his eyes as Hamilton crosses the dimly lit room to an open doorway. Hamilton flips a light switch and light pours from the other room. Thomas winces as his eyes adjust quickly, but he can look around now.

The living room is sparsely furnished, but the tv on the opposite wall is fairly large. An armchair and a coffee table complete the small set-up, as well as a few pictures on the walls. It’s too dark to make out specifics, but Thomas thinks he can see Washington with a smaller woman in the ones closest to him. He glances down, finds a small nest of pillows and a blanket in a pile next to the couch. They’re propped up against the side of the couch Thomas’ head would have been while he was asleep. _Did Hamilton sit there, waiting for me to wake up?_

Thomas hears Hamilton turn on the tap, muttering to himself, and then Hamilton reemerges, glass in hand. Thomas stifles a gasp. The other man is _covered_ in dried blood, his shirt almost dyed rusty red. It’s on his neck and arms, though if Hamilton’s bothered by it, he doesn’t show it. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Thomas realizes that it must be _his_ blood.

“Here.” Hamilton comes back over, offering Thomas the cup. Thomas takes it with his left hand- his shoulder complains, but it’s nothing like the pain in his right hand- and takes a small sip. Even the small amount he takes makes him choke. Hamilton instantly has hands on him, hitting Thomas lightly on the back. Little flares of pain erupt with each impact, and Thomas shies away from the touch.

Hamilton instantly stops, drawing his hands back to himself, though they hang in the air like he wants to reach out again. Hamilton watches with wide, worried eyes as Thomas puts the glass down on the coffee table. “I’m fine,” Thomas says when the hacking stops. Hamilton doesn’t look like he believes him, but he kneels down on the pile of pillows on the floor.

“Uh, can I ask…” Hamilton fidgets, looking at a spot on the couch next to Thomas. “Can I ask what the nightmare was?” His voice is hoarse, harsh in the quiet. Thomas looks down at the rolled up blanket, gripping it tightly in his hands.

“Do you really have to ask?” Thomas slowly untangles the blanket from around himself, tosses it away from himself. He wants it off his body, hell, his _clothes_ feel too restrictive. He sits the rest of the way up, feet on the floor, trying to banish the feeling of ropes and zip ties around his body.

Hamilton silently slides onto the couch next to Thomas, hands clasped together. “It might help to talk about it?” Hamilton looks at the side of Thomas’ face, not daring to come too close. They aren’t touching, Hamilton has left a good few inches of space between them.

“I’m fine,” Thomas breathes. He refuses to look at Hamilton, refuses to break. _I’m fine_ , he repeats in his head.

“If you were, you wouldn’t have had the nightmare,” Hamilton counters.

“I swear, I’m-”

“Thomas.”

Thomas grits his teeth, feeling his hands clench. The pain in his right is grounding, the way raw skin rubs against the bloodied bandages. “Wire.”

“Wire?” Hamilton prompts. Thomas nods.

“Under my nails and skin.” Thomas forces the words out like he has to pull them from the deepest part of himself. “It’s… what they did before… before they tore them off.” Hamilton grimaces, looking down and away.

“I’m going to fucking kill them,” Hamilton mutters. Thomas doesn’t respond. For a moment, the only sound is their breathing. Thomas tries to push the nightmare away, but it stays fresh in his head.

“What time is it?” Thomas asks, breaking the silence. Hamilton starts, glances at the clock.

“Eight,” Hamilton responds. “You’ve been asleep for five hours.”

“Is it just us here?”

Hamilton nods. “John and Laf left for the bar, Pip went home and the Washingtons are… they’re trying to figure out what happened to you.” Hamilton looks back up at Thomas, leaning away like Thomas might snap and attack him. Thomas realizes he probably looks like hell.

“And you stayed?” Thomas asks, not quite believing it.

“Yeah, someone had too.” Hamilton nods. “I thought I should return the favor.”

Thomas is confused for a moment, then remembers. _Last night at the urgent care_. “Right. Thanks,” he says. Hamilton nods again.

“James called,” he says suddenly. Thomas starts, looking at him sharply.

“James?” Thomas asks.

“That’s Lewis’ real name, right?” Thomas nods, and Hamilton continues, digging in his pocket. He pulls out a small rectangle Thomas recognizes as his phone. “We didn’t know what to say, so we just said you were in the bathroom.”

“Thanks,” Thomas mumbles, turning his phone on to find an exceeding amount of texts and calls, not all from James. Everyone else had sent him something over the last nine or so hours. Hamilton shrugs.

“No problem.” Hamilton hesitates, biting at his lower lip. “What do you want to tell him?”

Thomas is a tad surprised that no one instantly told James, but he’s grateful. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Hamilton repeats, the sounding out the word like it’s in a language he doesn’t know. Thomas nods.

“Nothing. He doesn’t need to know.” Hamilton blinks, looking at Thomas like he’s grown a third head.

“I don’t-”

“I’m fine, _he doesn’t need to know_ ,” Thomas repeats.

“Uhh, you’re _not_ fine,” Hamilton says. “I saw you earlier, you were practically comatose.”

“That was earlier. I’m fine now.” Thomas glares at Hamilton, daring him to argue. Of course Hamilton does anyway.

“If you were fine, it wouldn’t be a big deal whether or not you told him,” Hamilton points out. “You would tell him, point blank, and move on. But you don’t want to do that. _Why_?”

“I can’t tell him,” Thomas says, mind too rattled to come up with yet another lie.

“Why not? He’s your partner, right?” Hamilton inches forward on the couch. It’s Thomas’ turn to shrug.

“Not really, he’s a member of the team.”

“Well, why _can’t_ you tell him? You went through some shit today.” Hamilton’s eyes are wide, expectant.

“I just can’t, okay? Drop it,” Thomas hisses. Hamilton’s expression hardens.

“Can’t or won’t.”

“I said drop it.”

“Why can’t you tell him?” Hamilton pushes, shooting ever closer. Thomas bristles.

“Because if I do he’ll send me home!” He snaps. The words come out before Thomas can stop them, and they just keep coming. “He’ll call our boss and tell him about the concussions and yelling at him and everything else and I’ll get sent home!”

Hamilton is quiet for a moment, the only sound in the room is Thomas’ harsh breathing as he tries to keep himself under control.

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Hamilton ventures. Thomas shakes his head violently.

“I can’t go home. Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Thomas hisses, “Going home means admitting defeat. This was my first leadership assignment. I had to _fight_ for this. I begged and pleaded to be the assignment leader and going home means that everyone else was right. That I wasn’t ready for it.” Thomas cradles his face in his hands. “I can’t go home.”

Hamilton scoots a little closer on the couch. “What’s the worst that could happen? You’ll have another chance.” Thomas is shaking his head before Hamilton even finishes his sentence.

“I’ll get fired,” Thomas admits. Hamilton frowns.

“I’m sure that’s not-”

“Everyone already blames me for Charlotte, so not being able to handle something _I_ asked for…” Thomas trails off, knowing Hamilton can finish the train of thought.

“If they really blamed you for whatever happened in Charlotte, they would have fired you over that.”

“No, they couldn’t. It was all _technically_ Louis’ fault.” Thomas peers at Hamilton sideways, through his fingers, and sees the confused expression on the other man’s face. Thomas sighs. “Louis Capet used to be the team leader, before Charlotte.”

“Louis Capet… the negotiator?” Hamilton asks. Thomas nods. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story, one that’s classified.” Thomas shifts down the couch, away from the other man.

“I got time, and who am I going to tell?” Hamilton scoots closer anyway. Thomas leans back, eyeing Hamilton warily. Hamilton just waits, expectantly, hopefully. Thomas locks eyes with the other man and the story comes tumbling out.

“Abe Lincoln used to run the North Street gang down in Charlotte, practically ran everything like King does up here. Things were… stable, if not peaceful. See, some of the North Street boys didn’t like the way the major pimps were working their prostitutes. Things got a little chaotic, and a guy named Jefferson Davis started making a ruckus. Demanded Lincoln stop all the attacks on the pimps that were happening and protect them from the rest of the gang. Not only did Lincoln _not_ do that, he basically demanded Davis and all his friends hand over all their working girls and shut up about it.

“So Davis and the others split off, formed the South Street gang, tried to take Lincoln’s power from him. It was basically all out war. We got sent down to resolve things. Louis was in charge, I was just one of the agents under him. As a group, we started working with Lincoln so we could arrest Davis, but I was undercover in South Street.

“One of the boys I met was a guy named John Booth.” Thomas looks anywhere but Hamilton as he speaks. “He was cute, wanted to be an actor. Was pretty good. Had a brother in the business, his dad had been an actor, but John had gotten some sort of respiratory disease. He couldn’t perform until he recovered, but needed money. Turned to spying against North Street for Davis to pay the bills.

“Looking back, he… wasn’t a great person. Kind of violent, pretty racist actually. But at the time… he was a starving actor. I felt bad for him. I thought maybe-” Thomas laughs at himself “-I could be his _savior_ or something. Thought I could _change_ him. I convinced Louis to beg our higher ups and the North Carolina DA to let us offer Booth a deal: he turned on Davis, we’d get him out. More than that, we would give him a job. Make him a ‘gang mentality specialist’ or something like that.”

Hamilton has gotten ever closer to Thomas, enraptured in the story. Hamilton’s leg is now a hairsbreadth away from Thomas’, and Thomas can feel his body heat. “At first he told me he’d think about it. Took the news I was a cop pretty well, to his credit. By that point, Lincoln had gotten Davis pretty well cornered. It was just a matter of time before South Street surrendered. Then one night, Davis got himself surrounded by a bunch of very pissed off North Street boys. Louis had a choice to make: risk police lives to _try_ and arrest Davis, or sit back and let North Street take care of him.

“James and Ben ran the math, and it was statistically better for North Street to have their way than try and get in the middle of it. So that’s what Louis did. I remember they dragged Davis out of this warehouse and strung him up on a streetlight.” The memory is fresh, like it happened yesterday. The sight of Davis’ beaten, bloody body swinging in a fall breeze. Half of his face had just been… gone. Thomas shakes the sight out of mind.

“Anyway, when Booth found out what happened, he was pissed. He had been devoted to Davis. Basically told me to fuck off and disappeared. I was upset, but there was nothing to be done. So we turned our attention to tracking down the surviving South Street leaders and protecting Lincoln long enough to arrest him. I was on Lincoln’s guard detail the night of the Ford’s Theatre incident. Booth got into theatre, and approached me. He said he had changed his mind, wanted to talk about the deal some more. So I asked Louis if it was okay to leave Lincoln to go talk to Booth for about it. Louis said yes, but when my back was turned…” Thomas makes a gun with his good hand, pointing it out in front of him, like he’s aiming for the back of someone’s head. “Bam.”

“He shot Lincoln,” Hamilton finishes. Thomas nods.

“My fault, but Louis gave me the go ahead, so technically he had to carry the blame. So Farnese demoted him, because he didn’t want to fire him. He wanted to get rid of me, but some bullshit rule kept him from doing it. He was going to put James in charge, but _I_ felt like I needed to prove myself after what happened. I got James, Ben and Steuben and a few others to back me up. I think Farnese wants me to fail, so he can finally get rid of me.” Thomas drops his head against the couch.

“So I can’t go home,” he finishes.

“No, no you can’t,” Hamilton agrees. Thomas blinks, head shooting up in surprise. Hamilton looks back at him, acceptance and understanding on his face. “You have something to prove. I get that,” is his answer to Thomas’ unasked question. “Besides-” Hamilton shrugs “-if your boss is hoping you fail, you _have_ to succeed. Stick it to the Man!”

A strange relief floods through Thomas, as if Hamilton’s approval actually _meant_ something to him. Hamilton grins wickedly at him, eyes glinting in the low evening light.

“I _am_ ‘the Man,’ Hamilton.” Thomas smiles back, a little smirk, not much more. Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“Well, the Man’s Man, then.”

Thomas chuckles, a deep, genuine laugh that surprises Thomas in its sincerity. Laughing feels odd, considering the circumstances, but Hamilton starts to laugh too and soon the both of them are giggling like school children. Hamilton’s laughter is almost barking, short little sounds, mischievous almost. _It’s cute_ , Thomas thinks. _He’s cute_.

It’s the first time the thought crosses Thomas’ mind and isn’t instantly dismissed. It’s presented like a fact, one that the rest of Thomas’ mind accepts simply. Well, not quite, because a part of his brain protests that Hamilton is not _cute,_ he’s _handsome_. He’s got that dark hair that frames such intelligent, sparkling eyes. The light from outside catches Hamilton’s hair, creating a silver halo around his face. Thomas can remember how soft that hair is, he wants to reach out and run his fingers through it again.

Hamilton looks back up at Thomas, and Thomas realizes that he’s been staring. There’s a heat that rises to Thomas’ face, and he wants to look away, but he’s entranced again. Just like in the elevator, Thomas is frozen simply within Hamilton’s gaze. They’re so _close,_ Hamilton having long since closed the gap between them.

With a rush, Thomas realizes Hamilton is staring back. Thomas feels a pull, finds himself leaning ever so slightly down, closer to Hamilton. Thomas’ eyes flick down to Hamilton’s lips, slightly parted, the trail end of a smile still ghosting the corners. When he looks back up at Hamilton’s eyes, they shine with barely contained emotion.

Hamilton’s face tilts up almost imperceptibly. Thomas’ good hand reaches up slowly, trembling as it gets closer to Hamilton’s face. They’re inches, _centimeters_ away-

Thomas’ stomach rumbles.

In the silence, the sound echoes around the room. It snaps Thomas out of whatever trance he was in, and he instantly jerks away from Hamilton. The shorter man seems to jump, startled by the sudden noise. The blink at each other, heat rising to Thomas’ face when he realizes _what just almost happened_.

Thomas looks down, away from Hamilton. “Uh, guess I could use some food?” He laughs weakly, scooting farther back on the couch as best he can. He hears Hamilton return the awkward chuckle, hears him shift in place.

“Makes sense,” Hamilton coughs, stands from the couch and walks away briskly. Thomas looks up just enough to watch Hamilton take two steps into the kitchen, stop and turn back around. “We gotta go out for food.”

“Why?” Thomas asks, mind still reeling.

Hamilton winces, glances at the refrigerator door. “The Boss’s lady won’t be happy with us if we raid her fridge.” Hamilton won’t make eye contact, even as Thomas nods his understanding. Thomas turns his attention to his own feet, still carefully wrapped in bandages from his toes to halfway up his foot. He catches a glimpse of the red, angry, bruised ring of skin around his ankles and winces. _Well, let’s see how this goes_.

Slowly, both hands planted on the couch behind him, Thomas rises to his feet. Both feet erupt into protests, his head spins and Thomas grimaces, holding on tight to the arm of the couch.

“Woah, hey,” Hamilton breaks in, suddenly concerned. He’s at Thomas’ side in a flash, grabbing onto his arm to steady the taller man. “You need to sit back down. I can call for take out.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Gotta stand sometime,” he spits through gritted teeth. “I _have_ to walk.” After a moment, pregnant with Hamilton’s thoughts and worry, the shorter man nods. He lets go of Thomas’ arm, thankfully, and Thomas manages to push himself upright.

The room spins around Thomas. _Blood loss,_ he realizes dimly. The rush of pain in his feet elicits a far from dignified noise and is nearly enough to make Thomas drop back onto the couch, but he knows he can’t do that. Not if he doesn’t want to go home, not if he wants to keep working. Hamilton watches, sitting on pin needles and ready to jump in to help Thomas if needed.

Which is the other thing. Thomas wants out of this condo, away from this stupid couch and almost kissing Hamilton.

Thomas rocks on his feet, trying to find a way to center his weight with the least amount of pain. _As long as I just walk back on my heels, maybe it won’t be so bad?_ Thomas thinks, leaning back far enough that most of his body weight is on the back of his feet.

“Where too then? The diner?” Thomas offers, trying to keep his voice as steady and cool as possible. Hamilton fidgets, the fingers of one hand tapping the knuckles of the other.

“If that’s what you want…” Hamilton trails. He still won’t meet Thomas’ eyes, his gaze is focused somewhere just left of Thomas’ head. Which is fine, really it is. Hamilton must just feel awkward, understandably. Hamilton’s _probably_ a straight man who didn’t understand what Thomas wanted, even if Thomas only wanted it for a split second.

 _You still do_ , a traitorous portion of his brain says, _look at him_. Thomas is, looking at the way Hamilton fidgets nervously. It’s adorable, the way he almost pouts as he waits for Thomas’ response. Thomas is seized with that same strange desire again, to cross the distance between them and wrap his arms around the smaller man; slot their lips together and-

“Well?” Hamilton asks. Thomas blinks, returning to the harsh reality of _he can’t do any of that_. Not only would Hamilton rebuff him- Thomas is dead sure of that- Hamilton is _Hamilton_. Insufferable, desireable Hamilton. A gangster. Thomas is still a federal agent. Nothing can happen.

“Sure. The diner’s fine,” Thomas breathes. Hamilton nods stiffly, and when he turns away to open the door, Thomas feels his face collapse.

 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ He asks himself. He practically flees that apartment, trying to leave the memory of almost kissing Hamilton behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're probably mad at me and that's okay. The boys will get there eventually.
> 
> (Friendly reminder Thomas doesn't know Alex is Bi yet.)
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Thomas is doing a Bad Thing here trying to suppress his trauma and not telling people about it. This is not the proper way you deal with stuff like this. He also really shouldn't be walking but I can't have him bedridden so fuck it.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Jefferson Davis (hehe ironic name there) was the president of the Confederacy.
> 
> John Wilkes Booth was awful and I hate him.
> 
> Lincoln is high key one of my favorite historical figures.
> 
> See you Saturday.


	30. Alexander 'Tomcat' Hamilton Puts On The Moves: Bringing Up Recently Incurred Trauma As A Way To Further His Personal Goals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA: "Alexander Is A Huge, Insensitive Dick"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: References to past torture, references to developing PTSD, homophobic language (sort of).

Thomas doesn’t want to get a cab, the idea of riding in a car isn’t pleasant right now. Hamilton seems to understand because he doesn’t press Thomas to get one anyway. So Thomas forces himself to walk, to travel the multitude of blocks to the diner on his feet. He adjusts his gait so that most of the impact of each step lands on his heels, but it still isn’t pleasant. It’s downright torture, which might be half the reason Seabury did it at all.

The flare of pain Thomas feels in each footstep is a constant reminder of what happened, just like the way Thomas flinches at each passing car as it speeds past them on the street. He can’t help but watch each one pass out of the corner of his eye. Hamilton must notice, because he switches positions on the sidewalk with Thomas, choosing to walk between Thomas and the curb.

Thomas watches warily as a black SUV pulls into a parking spot on the side of the road ahead of them. He gives it a wide berth as he and Hamilton pass, the shorter man giving the man at the parking meter a small ‘hello.’

Besides that though, Hamilton talks to Thomas almost non-stop.

“How Washington managed to convince the Mrs. to marry him, no one knows. He _claims_ it was consensual, and it must have been,” Hamilton rambles, “Martha Washington is not a woman you could force to do anything she doesn’t want to. John still thinks she must have lost a bet.”

“He must be in love with her.” Thomas manages to keep little flickers of pain out of his voice.

“He’s the only one _not_ terrified of her.” Hamilton has to take two steps to keep up with Thomas’ longer strides. Thomas might be moving oddly, almost jerkily on his injured feet, but Hamilton still has to speed walk to keep up. “I mean that in the most loving way possible, but that woman once brought King to heel.”

“Really?”

Hamilton snorts. “Oh yeah. King was talking shit about Abigail, and Mrs. Washington was having _none_ of that. It’s the only time I’ve ever heard King apologize to anyone.”

“I would pay literal fortunes to see that.” Thomas looks around, scanning the surrounding buildings. “Are we close yet?”

“Yeah, ya big baby, it’s just up ahead,” Hamilton teases. If Thomas cranes his neck, he can see the sign a little further up the block. To him, struggling to walk through the flares of pain that come from each step, the sign looks like the gates of heaven. Hamilton babbles on about something or other, but Thomas focuses on just reaching the diner.

When they finally reach their destination, and Hamilton opens the door for Thomas, it takes everything in him not to just collapse on the nearest seat. Thomas holds himself up as proudly as possible as Hamilton scoots around him and makes a beeline for their usual booth. Thomas just manages to catch Hamilton on the shoulder.

“We should sit one over,” Thomas says, motioning to the empty booth closer to him. Hamilton’s eyebrows furrow.

“Why? We always sit here.” Hamilton points at the booth in question. Thomas hides a wince, eyes flicking over to the little condiment caddy where he knows the bug is.

“Change of pace?” Thomas steps back and slides into his chosen booth before Hamilton can argue. One booth away should be far enough that the mic shouldn’t pick anything up. Not that the bug should be _on_ right now, but Thomas isn’t in the mood to risk anything. Hamilton gives Thomas a look like Thomas has lost his marbles, but gratefully humors the taller man.

Hamilton crawls into the opposite booth just as a waiter approaches. Under the bright florescent lights, Thomas remembers that Hamilton is coated in dried blood, and Thomas himself probably doesn’t look much better. Hamilton doesn’t seem phased, however, and the waiter just gives them a once-over with his eyes. Thomas realizes that the staff is probably used to this, if the Sons like to use this place as a meetup as much as Thomas thinks they do.

They both get sodas, Thomas cracks open the menu, and Hamilton keeps talking. Hamilton kicks his legs slightly under the table as he rambles on. Thomas pays half-attention, letting the sound of Hamilton’s bubbly voice wash over him. It’s strange how much that voice already feels comforting, like Thomas could listen to it forever. The waiter returns with their drinks, interrupting Hamilton’s story. The moment he’s gone, Thomas expects Hamilton to start up again.

“So um…” Hamilton pauses, the silence in the conversation instantly drawing Thomas’ attention. Thomas looks up from the menu in his hands and watches Hamilton fumble with his wallet. Thomas frowns as the other man pulls out a wad of cash and holds it out across the table. “I wanted to pay you back.”

“For what?” Thomas asks, eyeing the hunk of money being offered him. It’s a little thin, mostly made up of ones, but Thomas thinks he sees a ten in there.

“For all the money I stole from you,” Hamilton shakes the stack slightly. He must see the confusion on Thomas’ face because he elaborates: “When I let you think you had to pay the diner and just took it all for myself?”

Thomas blinks, realization dawning. “Oh,” he breathes. Hamilton grimaces and looks down at his lap, money still held out in front of him.

“It’s not everything I owe you,” Hamilton admits. “But I didn’t buy a coat, I just said that to tease you. Most of it went to buying food. But I’ll get the rest of it, promise!”

Thomas sits, leaning back in the booth with wide eyes. The silence stretches between them as Thomas processes what Hamilton has said. Hamilton starts to fidget, still not meeting Thomas’ eyes.

“Look, just take it already.” Hamilton stretches his arm out a little further, pushing the wad towards Thomas.

Thomas feels something bubble in his chest. Something light and joyous, something that makes his stomach do little flip-flops and he starts to giggle. Hamilton turns beet red as Thomas’ giggles turn into almost full laughs.

“Don’t be asshole about it, just take the damn money,” Hamilton snarls.

“I don’t want it,” Thomas admits, breathless in this odd feeling he has. “You don’t have to pay me back.” Hamilton’s head snaps up, confusion plastered across his face.

“But you said you could get in trouble for it.” Hamilton still has the fist full of cash outstretched. Thomas leans forward, wraps his hand around Hamilton’s and pushes Hamilton’s hand back towards the younger man.

“I already figured out how to cover for it,” Thomas says. “I’d have to to admit to a lie, and we both know I don’t like doing that.”

“But-”

Thomas cuts off Hamilton’s protest. “No buts.” Thomas manages to gently put Hamilton’s hand back near his chest, and Thomas lets go of his hand.

“What if you get caught? Shouldn’t you have the funds to make up for it?” Hamilton’s hand clenches around the bills.

“I have more than enough in my own savings to pay for a couple of diner meals, Hamilton,” Thomas drawls. “I can just take it from the wedding fund, no big deal.”

Hamilton freezes. His eyes widen and Thomas can almost see the color drain from his face. “A wedding fund?” Hamilton’s voice has dropped in volume; it sounds hollow, shocked. “You’re getting married?” He looks so pathetic Thomas feels the urge to lean over the table and-

Thomas shrugs. “Eventually, yeah,” he says. “Not _now_ , but sometime.”

“So you’re not engaged?” Hamilton asks. Thomas shakes his head, and he swears he can see Hamilton visibly relax. “So why have a wedding fund then?”

“So I know what money I’m using for it,” Thomas explains, raising his drink to his lips. “It’s all the inheritance money I got from my father.”

“That’s a nice way to remember him,” Hamilton remarks. “Use his money to get married.” Thomas practically snorts sprite out of his nose.

“No, that’s not it at all!” Thomas puts his drink back down, feeling the burning of soda in his sinuses. “I’m doing it to be a petty motherfucker.”

“What do you mean?” Hamilton peers at him over his own drink. Thomas smirks.

“Well, using my father’s money to fund a gay wedding is the best revenge I can get.”

“Revenge?”

“Yep!” Thomas leans over the table, towards Hamilton. “The only reason I have that money is that he didn’t write me out of his will fast enough after he disowned me.”

“He disowned you?” Hamilton asks, “What for?”

“Well, the last time I saw him, I told him I was gay. Then he told me that-” Thomas thickens his accent in his best impression of Peter Jefferson “-’no son of mine is gay,’ except he didn’t say gay, he used the f-slur, then I said ‘guess I’m not your son then!’”

“No,” Hamilton breathes, leaning over the table. Thomas nods, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Then he said, and I quote, ‘have fun sucking dicks in hell,’ and I said ‘see you there!’ Two weeks later, he was dead in a car crash. First and only time I ever stood up to that man.” Thomas shakes his head at the memory.

“I… I’m so sorry,” Hamilton says.

“Don’t be,” Thomas replies. “Everyone else was pretty cool with me. Hell, my sister Lizzie’s got a girlfriend now. When I told my mom what I wanted to do with the money, she thought it was the best thing she’d ever heard.”

“That doesn’t change what your father was like,” Hamilton says, frowning. Thomas shrugs.

“Nothing changes that.” Thomas takes a drink, trying to think of some sort of conversation segway to get off the topic of Peter Jefferson.

“Was he always that shitty?” Hamilton asks. Thomas can’t keep the grimace off his face as he replies:

“Yeah,” Thomas coughs. “Can we not talk about him?” Hamilton sighs, nods.

“‘Course. Sorry for asking.” Hamilton stirs his drink with his straw, absentmindedly. Thomas fidgets, suddenly feeling guilty for shifting the mood. The waiter comes and goes, taking their order and disappearing.

“So, are you trying to get back with Eliza?” Thomas asks, the question the first thing that popped into his head. Hamilton starts.

“No, why would you think that?”

Thomas shrugs, burying the surge of relief he felt. “You were flirting with her today.”

“You noticed?” Hamilton asks, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. Thomas nods.

“The whole damn meeting did,” he says. “But it’s not anything.”

“Nope,” Hamilton says, almost too emphatically. “Not at all. I’m single and free as a bird.” Hamilton leans on the table, putting his chin down on his wrists so he has to look up at Thomas. The sight of Hamilton, peering up at him through his eyelashes, sends a little jolt of adrenaline through Thomas’ body. Once again, the little voice in the back of his head- the one chanting ‘ _kiss him kiss him kiss him_ ’ grows louder. Thomas coughs, trying to stifle the urge.

“What happened there? Between you and…” Thomas trails, motioning vaguely with drink in hand. Hamilton jerks, head coming up off the table and leaning back into his chair.

“Oh,” he says. “I, uh, I fucked up.” Thomas waits, hands circling each other in a request for Hamilton to keep talking. Hamilton fidgets, but takes a deep breath and says, in a giant rush: “I cheated on her with James Reynolds' wife.”

Thomas nearly spits out the mouthful of sprite he’d taken. He looks at Hamilton, wide-eyed. _He’s a cheater?_ Hamilton shifts in his seat, glancing about so as not to make eye contact.

“Eliza was gone on some vacation with Angelica and Peggy, and I was lonely and Maria was offering…” he winces. “Kind of. She’s a working girl, and she offered a discount and I was pissed at Reynolds anyway.” Hamilton rubs his face in his hands. “Reynolds tried to blackmail me, but I told everyone what happened and Eliza left.”

“Jesus,” Thomas breathes. _Hamilton’s a cheater, he’s a fucking cheater._ Hamilton nods.

“It almost… _I_ almost broke up the Sons. The Schuylers were so angry and tried to get Washington to kick me out, but the boss wouldn’t and Eliza’s dad threatened to break off from Washington.” Hamilton sighs. “I think Pip convinced them to stay with us. I don’t know. Angelica wouldn’t talk to me for _months_. I have no idea how Eliza forgave me.”

“You fucked up,” Thomas says.

Hamilton lets out a breathy chuckle. “Yeah, I fucked up.”

Silence descends, both men unsure of where to take the conversation. Thomas almost wishes Hamilton hadn’t told him.

“So, uh… King and Seabury?” Thomas ventures. “That’s a… thing?” Hamilton’s eyes instantly light up, a small chuckle escapes his lips.

“Oh yeah. That’s a _thing_.” Hamilton says it with such conviction and pure schadenfreude that Thomas is taken aback.

“Well, now I gotta know what story there is behind that.” Thomas takes another sip, settling down for a story.

“Well,” Hamilton begins, the biggest shit-eating-grin on his face. “Seabury used to be this preacher down on third street. For some reason, he decided it was his calling to ‘save’ all the gang boys he could meet. No big deal at first, then he actually started gaining some traction within the community. Was a _huge_ thorn in our side. This was back when King still ran the Sons so when I say ‘our’ I mean _everyone’s_ side.

“King decided to take care of it before Seabury got too worrisome, and did his usual shtick. Broke into Seabury’s apartment, acted all creepy and shit, you know how King is. Now, no one knows _exactly_ what happened that night, but the story generally goes like this:

“King waited for Seabury to get home, and launched into his normal ‘I’m better than you, do what I want, I’m terrifying’ speech. Seabury must have been expecting King to show up or something, because instead of being intimidated, Seabury just like made him tea or something. Like, King is going through his whole spiel, and Seabury is just calmly making tea, and then offers King a cup.

“King is just thrown completely off his game by this young preacher that he accepts the tea and they get to actually talking. A few hours later Seabury says he has to get to bed if he wants to make morning mass and shoes King out of his house. I was in the meeting King was coming back too, and he was just so… different. That’s the only way I could describe it. Anyway, halfway through the meeting he slams his hands on the table and screams ‘ _that damn preacher tricked me!_ ’ and storms out.”

Hamilton tells his story with flailing hands and wide expressions. The waiter actually has to dodge his flying motions to deliver their food. Thomas is entranced.

“So King went back to Seabury’s that night, ready to tear Seabury a new one, and when he gets there, Seabury’s already got a pot of tea brewing. Thing is, though, it’s some sort of fancy British tea that King had mentioned was his favorite the night before. And again, King is so surprised he talks with Seabury for _hours_.

“This goes on for _weeks_. People keep asking King when he’s going to just end this preacher, but King keeps dodging the question. Reynolds starts getting suspicious, a bunch of guys are getting worried that King is spending so much time with this Seabury fellow and King won’t say a damn word.

“Eventually, King comes back from one of these little rendezvous with Seabury hanging on his arm. Somehow King convinced him to give up his parish and join him. You should have seen it. King just comes prancing in with Seabury attached to his side and goes ‘everybody! This is Sam. He is second in command from now on!’

“Reynolds- he’d been second for _years_ \- his jaw just dropped. The entire room was silent. Nobody knew what was happening. People thought Seabury somehow had gotten blackmail on King, there was no other explanation, as far as most people were concerned. Seabury was just suddenly everyone’s superior and King would not hear any different. And then, out of nowhere, during a completely normal meeting, King just grabbed Seabury and then they were making out and people lost their shit.

“Reynolds practically started _screaming_ , and King just looked at him so unimpressed. Reynolds was talking about not wanting to work for homosexuals and all this shit about leaving. King just rolled his eyes, kissed Seabury again, and told Reynolds that if he had a problem with it, he could take it up with the bottom of the Hudson river. Reynolds was _so pissed off_. I honestly thought he was going to get up and leave.

“There were a bunch of other people there too, lots of them were talking about leaving with Reynolds. Then Washington stood up and congratulated the two of them. And that’s how the bulk of the Redcoat army suddenly hated the Sons of Liberty. Reynolds decided that if he wasn’t going to leave, he’d take his anger out on Washington and everyone loyal to him.

“Ironically, that’s what started all the bullshit that led to the Sons walking out on King.” Hamilton shrugs. He looks down, starts at the sight of his burger, as if he hadn’t noticed it arrived. _He probably hadn’t_ , Thomas thinks. He himself hasn’t even really started on his own food yet, picking at fries as Hamilton ranted. “Huh, food’s here.”

“Yes, Hamilton, it’s been here for a while,” Thomas teases. Hamilton sticks out his tongue at him. Thomas just rolls his eyes as Hamilton checks his food for the right toppings.

“You know what’s the funniest bit about the King-slash-Seabury thing?” He asks.

“What?” Thomas asks.

“I’m dead sure Reynolds would jump at the chance to be in Seabury’s place.”

“As second again?” Thomas dips a handful of fries in vinegar. Hamilton smirks.

“Yeah, _and_ as King’s boytoy.”

Thomas nearly chokes on his fries. Wide-eyed, Thomas shakes his head. “I’m sorry, are we talking about the same James Reynolds? The homophobic _idiot_ who tied me up in the back of a van?”

“Yep.” Hamilton digs into his food. “I think he’s just really jealous. That, and he knows that most of King’s supporters don’t like the fact King is in a gay relationship. If only King and Seabury are out, Reynolds can run interference and smooth some egos. If all three were out…” Hamilton makes a slicing motion across his neck. “So the man married some poor girl from the streets and pretends like he hates Seabury. Well, he probably _does_ hate Seabury, but not for being gay.”

“But for being gay with King,” Thomas finishes. Hamilton points at him with a fry.

“Bingo.”

Thomas whistles. “Damn.” Hamilton nods, shoving food into his mouth. “If we had proof-”

“Yeah, the great ‘if,’” Hamilton remarks. “If this, if that, does it really matter?”

“Well that sounds defeatist,” Thomas drawls. Hamilton rolls his eyes.

“It’s not defeatist, it’s realist,” Hamilton counters.

“Pessimism is not realism, it’s just pessimism.”

“I’m being realistic, not pessimistic.” Hamilton slams his hamburger back down onto the plate. “‘If’ is a word for people that have time to dream and wonder about alternate possibilities. All I got is the here and now, Okay?”

“But if you don’t think about the other possibilities, nothing would ever change about the ‘here and now,’” Thomas replies.

“Who says I want to change the here and now?” Hamilton asks, pushing resituating himself so he’s leaning forward, over the table again.

“Considering the ‘here and now’ is relative poverty and statistically likely death, I don’t know why you _wouldn’t_ want to change it.”

“I happen to like the here and now. There’s a lot of good people. What would you have me trade it for?” Hamilton cocks his head. “No really, give me one of those dreamt up possibilities of yours.”

“Come work with me,” Thomas says. The words spill out before he realizes what he’s saying. “Leave the Sons and join me. Make a decent living doing a good thing.” Hamilton blinks, leaning back in his seat as Thomas’ words land.

“Like the deal you tried to make with Booth?” Hamilton asks, voice slightly unsteady. Thomas swallows.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Hamilton pauses, looking at Thomas wide-eyed, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “...are you actually offering that to me?”

Thomas hesitates. “Do you want it?”

“Are you offering?” Hamilton presses. Thomas shrugs.

“I’d have to ask around… would you really consider it?” Something akin to hope starts to unfurl in Thomas’ chest. _If Hamilton would really do that… maybe…_ The little corner of Thomas’ mind that he’s been ignoring since the almost kiss suddenly looks appealing to delve into.

“Maybe.” Hamilton looks out the window. “If I knew it was on the table, _maybe_ I’d think about it.”

Thomas doesn’t know what to think about the fluttering in his stomach and the way his heart leaps at the idea of Hamilton taking the Booth deal. He swallows, feeling the heat rise to his face and looks down to try and cover any signs of it up.

“We better eat before this gets cold,” Thomas says.

If someone had been watching them, they would have noticed Thomas spent more time simply looking at Hamilton through the rest of dinner than most anything else. Which one _could_ play off as Hamilton simply being Thomas’ meal partner unless you took it a step further and saw how Thomas was looking at the other man; as if Hamilton had brightly burning stars in his eyes.

\----------

Thomas holds the door open for Hamilton as they leave, letting the other man dance out onto the street in front of him.

“So, where to now?” Hamilton asks. Thomas thinks for a moment, looking up and down the street.

“Back to the Washingtons? Lewis isn’t expecting me,” Thomas explains. Hamilton shrugs.

“Alright.”

Thomas had almost forgotten how much it hurt to walk. But the tortuous pain is slightly dulled as he banters with Hamilton, something about the ‘proper’ color scheme for a diner. Hamilton thought David’s was in need of a do-over, Thomas happened to like it as it was.

At some point, Thomas glanced around, taking in their surroundings. “Isn’t Abigail’s apartment somewhere around here?”

“Yeah.” Hamilton nods, pointing just down the street. “That building right there.”

Thomas suddenly remembers something. “Where are Burr and the Theodosias?” He asks, quietly. “Someone said something about moving them again.”

Hamilton smirks, his eyes lighting up with an idea. “Yeah. Wanna go see them?” Before Thomas can reply, Hamilton grabs onto his unbandaged hand and starts to pull him down the street. Thomas stumbles on his feet, pushing past the pain to stay upright as he follows the shorter man. Hamilton pulls him to Abigail’s door, buzzing them in and then leading Thomas up the stairs.

Climbing stairs somehow elicits more pain than Thomas has felt before. But he manages to limp up behind Hamilton, the only sign of pain is a gasp he emits when he accidentally runs his toes into a stair. It feels like it takes forever, but eventually both men are on Abigail’s landing, and Thomas leans on the hand railing out of relief.

“Oh!” Hamilton looks over his shoulder when Thomas doesn’t follow him to the door. “ _Shit,_ you okay?”

Thomas nods, “Just give me a second,” he breathes. He manages to look up at Hamilton, and his stomach plummets at the worried, guilty expression on the man’s face.

“I shouldn’t have pulled you like that,” Hamilton mutters. Thomas shakes his head.

“ _I’m fine_.” Thomas grits his teeth, pushing down the throbbing in his feet and ankles.

“You’re almost crying,” Hamilton points out. Thomas blinks, reaches up and wipes at his face. His hand comes away wet.

“Well, would you look at that,” Thomas says. “But I’m fine.” Hamilton opens his mouth to protest, but the look Thomas levels him shuts the other man up. They both stand there for a moment, the silence heavy with the fact that Thomas is most certainly _not_ fine, but neither of them are going to do anything about it.

At some length, Thomas rights himself, standing straight. He goes to speak, but the sight of a door opening partially down the hall stops him. The silver-haired head of Abigail Smith pokes out into the hallway.

“You two boys wanna come in or what?” She asks, voice seemingly too strong for a woman of her age. Hamilton jumps, turning on a dime to face her.

“Yeah, we’re coming.” Hamilton marches down the hall, Thomas limping slowly behind. His right foot seems to be protesting harder than his left for some indiscernible reason. Abigail takes one look at Thomas’ injured gait and frowns.

“What’s wrong with you?” She asks as Thomas draws near.

“Tripped on the stairs,” Thomas lies, choosing very specifically not to look her in the eye. Abigail scoffs, obviously disbelieving, but lets Thomas into her home with no protest.

Thomas is greeted by the sight of Burr on the floor, bouncing the young Teddy on his knees, and cooing nonsense noises with her. Thomas looks up at Hamilton, one eyebrow cocked. Hamilton simply smiles and bows.

“Here you go,” Hamilton announces. “The lovely Burr family. Er… two thirds of it.”

“Theo’s in the kitchen,” Abigail says. “Making bottles.” She shuffles past Thomas, giving him a glare as she heads, presumably, in the direction of the kitchen.

“Good evening,” Burr says before turning his complete attention back to his daughter. The child giggles, rising and falling as Burr plays with her. Once again, Thomas is struck by the sight of Burr so relaxed and happy.

“I see you’re doing well, after what happened last night,” Thomas remarks. Burr nods distractedly.

“It wouldn’t have happened if you had kept them here!” Abigail calls from the kitchen. Thomas grimaces. There’s a muttering, the elder Theodosia’s voice drifts into the living room too quiet for Thomas to pick out what she’s saying. “Fine, it would have happened, but you three wouldn’t have been in the middle of it! I _told_ him moving you all was a bad idea.”

Thomas chuckles nervously at Abigail’s insistence. Theodosia comes walking out of the kitchen, a full bottle in her hands, and crosses the room to her… boyfriend? Baby daddy? Lover? Thomas isn’t sure what to call them, thinking on it.

“Don’t worry about her,” Theodosia says, “she’s just teasing you.”

“See if I mean it when I come at him with a spoon!” Abigail calls out. Thomas shifts on his feet, suddenly alarmed. Thomas has no idea how strong Abigail might be- he’s willing to bet she could out-perform some young men- but a fly moving at a fast enough speed with good enough accuracy could knock Thomas over right now.

“Please don’t,” Theodosia calls back. Her voice is much stronger now, especially compared to the night Thomas had met her. Thomas can hear Abigail grumble from the kitchen, but it’s incomprehensible. Thomas isn’t sure he wants to know what she’s saying anyway. He can certainly see how she and Mrs. Washington could be friends.

“So Burr!” Hamilton says, throwing himself onto the floor so he’s cross-legged in front of the family. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Hm?” Burr grins down at his daughter, barely paying any attention to Hamilton at all. The shorter man frowns, but Theodosia takes pity on him. The woman plucks her child from Burr’s hands, swinging the girl up and into her arms. “Hey, now, we were having fun!” Burr protests. Theodosia looks down at him, amusement in her eyes.

“And you can have fun again later.” Theo jerks her head in Hamilton’s direction. The shorter man gives Burr an innocent smile, eyes wide and eyelashes fluttering. Instantly, Burr’s countenance falls.

“Hamilton,” he sighs, but the Latino is already launching into a rant.

“So, last time we really spoke, you refused to talk about anything involving King. Which _I_ don’t understand, but it’s what you did.” Hamilton’s legs bounce as he speaks, Thomas can’t help thinking about how adorable he looks. “Since then, Thomas, I and a bunch of other Sons have put ourselves in danger for the three of you. _Thomas_ most especially.”

Burr looks up, eyeing Thomas curiously. Thomas fidgets, looking away. “Hamilton,” he warns. The little man looks up at him, steel and excitement in his eyes.

“Why not tell him what you did for him, huh? Let him know what people are sacrificing while he sits on his hands and waits for death?” Hamilton’s hands clench into fists, expression urging Thomas to speak. Thomas coughs, feeling all eyes boring into him.

“I’d rather not…” Thomas’ protest dies on his lips as he sees the desperation in Hamilton’s face. He looks back at Burr, whose face has turned guarded. The elder Theo watches him in concern, and even Abigail has emerged from the kitchen to listen. The old woman leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, waiting. Thomas swallows his trepidation, and raises his right hand so everyone can see his bandaged fingers.

“Over the course of four hours or so,” he begins, feeling small as he speaks, “King and Seabury removed fifteen of my nails, dislocated my shoulder, and cut up the rest of my body. They wanted to know where you three were.”

Theodosia’s eyes are blown wide, jaw hanging open slightly. Burr’s face hasn’t changed but for a little flash of some emotion in his eyes.

“How? When?” Theodosia asks. Thomas shifts, dropping his hand and looking at the floor.

“Earlier today. Around lunchtime.” Thomas feels like he has to pull every word up his throat.

“When Seabury dropped him off on the sidewalk in front of me-” Hamilton bursts in “-he couldn’t even speak.”

“How?” Abigail asks. Thomas picks up his head to see her stern expression. “How did they get you alone?”

“I…” Thomas hesitates. “I was on a walk. They attacked me from behind and dragged me in a van.”

“And you didn’t notice them coming up behind you?”

“I was distracted,” Thomas protests.

“By what?” Burr asks. Thomas’ gaze dragged in his direction, as well as Hamilton’s. Thomas can’t help but let his eyes settle on Hamilton. Their eyes meet, and Thomas realizes _him_. _I was thinking about him_.

“Things,” Thomas coughs. He pointedly glares at the floor, arms crossed and even Hamilton seems to take the hint.

“So-” Hamilton turns back to Burr, “-with people around you literally putting life and limb on the line, you _still_ won’t let even one thing slip?”

Burr lets the silence hang for a moment, but when he speaks he speaks clearly and without hesitation. “I think the very fact of what Agent Jefferson went through today illustrates my point. I apologize for your suffering, but that is the very thing we are trying to avoid by staying silent.”

“Burr-”

Burr holds up one hand to silence Hamilton. “I wasn’t finished. If Agent Jefferson had the opportunity to ask, I dare say we wouldn’t have minded if he turned us in to save his own skin. That’s how this world works. I wouldn’t have expected anything different.”

Theodosia nods her head in accordance to Burr’s words. “However, that’s not what happened,” Burr continues. “Thank you for not saying anything.” He inclines his head towards Thomas, even if just slightly. “But this does not change anything. What I said last night still stands.”

“But we can protect you! Last night should have proven that!” Hamilton insists.

“You all got very lucky,” Burr says, cold and determined against Hamilton’s fire. “I have a gun now, and that’s all the protection we need.”

“Burr!” Hamilton seems to be gearing up to speak again, but Burr stands from the floor before Hamilton can start.

“I said no. Now, it’s Teddy’s bedtime.”

Hamilton looks helplessly up at Burr, then at Thomas, and finally, pleadingly at Abigail. The older woman thinks, then shrugs.

“I can’t force ‘em to do anything, even if they are being idiots,” she says. “But Teddy does need to sleep. You can see yourselves out.” She nods in the direction of the door. Hamilton huffs, but stands from the floor.

“This isn’t over Burr,” he says.

“I say it is. Goodnight, Hamilton.” Burr takes Teddy from her mother’s arms and leads the two Theodosias down a hallway and out of sight. Abigail eyes them from her place on the wall until Hamilton practically storms out of her apartment. Thomas meets her gaze, and sighs.

“Sorry,” he says. Abigail’s eyebrows fly up her head. “About the whole ‘moving the Burrs’ thing.”

Abigail lets out a breath. “That’s all you had to say, dear.” She smiles. “Besides, I do think King’s done more to you than I ever could.” Thomas winces, and Abigail’s smile drops. “Too soon?” Thomas’ expression must be enough of an answer, because she sighs. “I apologize.”

“You’re fine,” Thomas replies.

“ _Thomas!_ ” Hamilton calls from the hallway. “Are you coming or what?!” Thomas looks out the door, but Hamilton must be closer to the staircase because Thomas can’t see him. From beside him, Abigail chuckles.

“Go, Agent. Your boy wants you.”

“He’s not my boy,” Thomas says, though there’s very little actual protest in his voice. Abigail just shakes her head.

“Goodnight.” She starts to head down the same hallway the Burrs disappeared down. Thomas calls a goodbye after her and heads out. The door clicks shut behind him, and he finds a fuming Hamilton waiting by the stairs.

“Finally,” he snaps. “Let’s go.” Hamilton starts down the stairs, grumbling to himself. Thomas stifles a sigh, walks to the top of the staircase and simply looks down for a moment, bracing himself.

The trip down hurts just as much as the trip up.

Hamilton is waiting for Thomas when he gets to the bottom, but just to push his way out of the building in a huff.

“Well, that plan was a bust,” Hamilton grumbles. Thomas blinks.

“Plan?” he croaks out, trying simply to keep walking without falling over. Hamilton nods.

“I was _sure_ what happened to you would convince Burr to talk.”

Thomas limps down the sidewalk next to Hamilton, grateful the man’s shorter stride gives him the opportunity to walk slower. “That was your plan?”

“Wasn’t that obvious?” Hamilton snaps.

Thomas feels his face start to shut down, starts to arrange in the familiar shapes of disgust and anger. “And you didn’t think to run the plan by me first?”

“Did I need to?”

“I would have liked some warning, yes!” Thomas glares at the shorter man. “You put me on the spot there.”

“Did I?” Hamilton asks, still stewing in his own anger, unable to see Thomas’ issue.

“What if I didn’t want to talk about it Hamilton?” Thomas asks. “What if I didn’t want to talk about one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me in front of practical _strangers_?”

It finally seems to hit Hamilton, as the man stops short. He looks up at Thomas with the sudden realization spreading across his face. “You… you didn’t want to, did you?”

“No, Hamilton,” Thomas sighs. Guilt floods the other man’s expression.

“I… I didn’t even consider that,” Hamilton mutters.

“Obviously not.” Thomas starts walking again, heading down the street. Hamilton has to work to keep up.

“Wait. Where are you going?” Hamilton asks. Thomas thinks, still walking despite the protest in his feet.

“Back to my team. I want to sleep in a bed.” It’s an excuse, Thomas knows. Hamilton inhales, a sharp noise that sends a spike of guilt down Thomas’ spine,

“Oh, okay,” Hamilton says, voice carefully neutral. “I… I’ll walk you. Make sure you get there this time.”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke, and Thomas doesn’t laugh. The rest of the walk is silent, save Hamilton telling him what turns to take. The streets suddenly feel very cold, and each step Thomas takes sends waves of pain up and down his body.

They reach the condo, and Thomas looks up to find the lights on the second floor still on. He thinks he sees James, a blurry figure behind curtains.

“This is mine,” Thomas says. Hamilton nods, hands in his pockets. Neither of them move for a moment, the air between them heavy.

“See you around?” Hamilton coughs, looking anywhere but Thomas. Thomas nods, stiffly.

“Goodnight, Hamilton.” Thomas marches up the stairs to the door, plants one hand on the doorknob, but hesitates. He can feel Hamilton’s eyes on his back, boring holes into him. He can’t see Hamilton’s face, but he _knows_ the shorter man is dying to speak. Thomas _wants_ him to speak, doesn’t want to leave the other man in this tense silence.

But nothing is said. Thomas just sighs, opens the door and walks inside.

The moment the door is closed behind him, Thomas collapses against it. He rubs his face with his hands, pinpricks of pain flaring from both hands. He can hear people moving upstairs, James will most certainly be down in a moment. Thomas glances at the clock, it’s late. Just past 11. He groans as he slumps against the wooden door.

“Thomas?” James calls, softly, from upstairs.

“Hey,” Thomas says back. He hears James let out a sigh of relief.

“Where the fuck have you been?” James appears at the top of the stairs, a frown etched on his face. He’s in a pajama top and pants, with exhaustion painted on his face.

“Sorry?” Thomas smiles a weak apology. James starts down the stairs.

“Who’s shirt is that?” he asks. Thomas starts.

“It’s-” Thomas glances down at himself, “one of Washington’s.”

“How did you get one of Washington’s shirts? Where’s yours?”

Thomas’ brain somehow manages to come up with a coherent lie. “Hamilton and Lafayette took me to his place for dinner. Spilled some gravy on mine, Washington gave me a replacement.”

James hits the bottom of the stairs, stepping closer to Thomas. “So where’s yours?” He asks again.

“Washington’s wife offered to wash it. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” Thomas feels his energy start to sag. His shoulder spasms, and the pain must show on his face because James asks:

“Are you alright?”

“Just tired, that’s all.” He moves to wave James off, but too late does he realize he uses his right hand. His hopes that James doesn’t notice the bandages are short lived as James’ eyes go wide.

“What happened Thomas?” He breathes, gaze locked on Thomas’ injured hand. Thomas bites his lip. For a split second, he considers telling the truth. Just let it all come spilling out, let James come comfort him and work out a plan for revenge. But Thomas knows that last part wouldn’t happen. James would wake the entire team, drag him to a doctor, then send him home.

 _Hamilton would plot revenge,_ Thomas thinks. “Hamilton slammed a door on my hand,” Thomas lies. “Basically destroyed my fingernails.”

James grits his jaw. Thomas thinks he’s going to ask to see the damage, and Thomas has a feeling his fingers look way too bad to have simply have gotten caught in a door. He resists the urge to shove his hand in his pocket. He can feel his heart fluttering in his chest.

Eventually, James sighs. “Just go to bed Thomas. When’s the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”

Thomas grins. “Too long,” he says, following James upstairs as his friend leads him to their shared bedroom. Two twin mattresses awaited them, Thomas’ calling his name from the far side of the room. Thomas practically collapses onto it, the day’s exhaustion finally pulling him down. His body feels ready to fall into a coma.

“Not going to shower?” James asks.

“In the morning,” Thomas mutters into his pillow. He hears James chuckle at him and crawl into his own bed. Thomas shuts his eyes, expecting to fall asleep right away.

But that’s not what happens, because his brain starts moving a mile a minute. It stays away from Seabury and King and the aching in his whole body, thankfully, but it gets stuck on Hamilton. Infuriating, endearing Hamilton. Thomas plays through the last few hours in his mind, every word the two of them shared in analyzed for meaning. Every time Thomas had been seized with the urge to kiss the man brought up again and again in his mind.

Thomas tries to get his mind onto other things. He tries counting sheep, to no avail. Hamilton just keeps coming back into his thoughts. Lovable, annoying Hamilton. The way he laughs, the way he looks framed by moonlight. The way he pressed and pressed at Thomas until Thomas told him things Thomas hadn’t even admitted to himself. The way he had looked when he thought Thomas was getting married. That twinkle in his eyes and the mischievous smirk-

“Fuck,” Thomas mutters to the darkened ceiling.

“What?” James grumbles, half asleep.

“Nothing, James. Go to sleep.” Thomas curls up under the blankets, trying not to focus on the one thing his brain has figured out and won’t let go.

Thomas is in love with Alexander Hamilton.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halle- _fucking_ -lujah.
> 
> Jesus Christ Thomas we're on chapter thirty, you've known him for 25, it's taken you this goddamned long.
> 
> This was actually two chapters originally, enjoy it.
> 
> See you Saturday


	31. In Which The Last Line Of This Chapter Is Possibly The Most Relatable Sentence I've Ever Written

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has feelings, more feelings, and then pulls the dickiest move of all dick moves.

By morning, Thomas’ brain has changed that statement into ‘Thomas is in deep deep like with Alexander Hamilton,’ which is somehow both merciful and worse. The ‘love’ word might be gone, but now it sounds like Thomas is a middle schooler harboring his first crush. Either way, it’s still a major problem. One Thomas has to fix, _now_.

Somehow, between waking up in fits of pain, being awoken by dreams (nightmares with Seabury _and_ more pleasant dreams with Hamilton) and the whirring of his brain, Thomas managed to snatch a few hours of sleep. But when the sun creeps through the window, Thomas doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to face what he’s realized during the course of the night.

“Thomas, it’s nearly eight.” James puts his hand on Thomas’ shoulder, shaking the half-asleep man. Thomas has to bite through his tongue so he doesn’t let James know how much that simple action hurts. He still lets out a groan though, and hopes James just assumes it’s a ‘please don’t wake me up’ sound. “You need to get up.”

“Don’t wanna,” Thomas mutters.

“Thomas,” James sighs, his voice stern. “Steuben’s making breakfast.”

“I’m up.” Thomas pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Immediately, his entire body complains, and Thomas feels multiple cuts reopen underneath his chest bandages. Thomas is beyond grateful his face is turned away from James.

“He says it’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” James hesitates. “You need to shower.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute,” Thomas grumbles. He waits until James has left the room before pushing himself into a standing position. Being on his feet still hurts like a bitch. _Probably will for a while_ , Thomas thinks, biting his lip to make it to the bathroom he and James shared.

Locking the door, Thomas checks to make sure the first-aid kit is under the sink, where it’s supposed to be. The sight of the white plastic makes Thomas breathe a sigh of relief. He’s going to need this thing after his shower. Thomas stands, looks himself in the mirror and takes a deep breath.

Thomas pulls off his shirt and finally gets his first good look at his upper chest. White gauze stained ruddy red wrapped around his torso in clean, professional lines. There is so much dried blood Thomas probably should have changed them before falling asleep last night. Steeling himself, Thomas finds the end of the wrappings and slowly starts to unwind the bandages.

At first it doesn’t look too bad. The skin around where his neck meets his chest is fairly unmarked. There are a few cuts in the upper portion of his right shoulder, and the left has the huge stab wound that’s already started to bleed just from what little movement Thomas has done. But as more and more skin is revealed, Thomas’ stomach starts to churn. There are literal hunks of flesh missing, tiny holes and divots up and down his torso.

Thomas twists to look at his back and it’s not much better. Little specks of blood start to well up as Thomas accidentally tears open the still-fresh wounds. His upper arms look like a checkerboard, and his back looks like an animal took bites from his body.

And then, as he turns back around, he spots it. Carved into the flesh above the last rib on his left side, is a tiny crown. Seven lines, three points and all the implications of it are etched into his skin. Thomas stares at it in silence, one hand reaching up to softly trace the half-healed cuts. He doesn’t even remember it happening, but there it is, sticking out against the deep black of his chest.

For the first time, Thomas realizes how badly everything is going to scar. These little marks are never going away. He’s going to bear the reminders of Seabury and King for the rest of his life. _Guess I can’t ever be shirtless around anyone ever again_ , Thomas thinks, _especially not James._ _No more pool parties for me._ He forces away pinpricks of tears and tears his eyes away from the mirror.

Thomas looks down at his bandaged hand. He has to take these wrappings off too, he knows. He doesn’t want to, especially after looking at his upper body. Thomas gulps, then slowly starts to peel the wrappings off his pinky. These bindings come off stiffly, blood having almost glued them in place. When he finally pulls the bandages off, the first thought that hits him is how _wrong_ it looks not to have a nail. Instead of the hard, slightly reflective surface that should be there, it’s just damaged skin and dried blood. Bile crawls up Thomas’ throat at the sight, but he holds it back.

Exposed to air, his finger stings as he frees the rest of his hand. Thomas removes the rest of the gauze quickly, not letting himself look too long at any one finger. He makes short work of his feet, but his toes look red and angry from use despite the injury. Quickly, he hops behind the shower curtain and turns the water on.

Thomas hisses as the water hits his body and all his wounds light up in pain. Blood runs down his body with the water as Thomas tries to keep any soap and shampoo out of his cuts. He has to wash his hair with one hand, and he _knows_ he’s breaking his hair routine, but he needs to clean every inch of his body. Now that he’s started his shower, Thomas is seized with the urge to scrub at his skin until every trace of what happened is gone, even if that means taking off a whole layer of skin.

Thomas scrubs with his good hand, ignoring the protests of his shoulder, feeling himself open up more wounds. He _has_ to get himself clean. When he looks down at himself, however, the little crown looks back and Thomas can’t help but think he won’t ever be.

The water at the drain is still a light pink even as Thomas finally shuts off the water. He stands in the silence for a moment, the only sound being his breathing and the last drops of water falling from the shower head. Thomas pokes his head out into the bathroom, just to make sure no one managed to get in. Thomas steps out of the shower, reaches for one of the towels on the wall, and stops. _Fuck._ If he bleeds on the towel, how is he supposed to explain that?

Thomas lets out a breath, bites the bullet, and grabs one anyway. If worst comes to worst, he can throw it out a window or burn it or something. He tries to be as gentle as possible, but when his body is dry he looks down at the beige fabric and sees the streaks of red. He runs the towel through his hair quickly and reaches for the first-aid kit.

Thomas slathers Neosporin across every wound he can reach, frowning when he realizes a few on his back aren’t going to get treatment. And it’s not like he can ask anyone else to help him out, either. His finger- and toenails hurt the most as he puts the disinfectant on them. The kit doesn’t have a full roll of gauze like Thomas was hoping, but he makes do with what patches and band-aids he has. He almost goes through a whole box of band-aids to cover all his nail beds, and he makes a mental note to replace it before someone notices. Gauze pads are medically taped to the largest wounds across his chest, the rest have the remainder of the band-aids strategically applied. He still doesn't have enough. Thomas sighs, seeing the smallest nicks going uncovered and settles for a second application of Neosporin.

“Thomas?” A knock at the door startles him enough to make him drop the tube of medicine. “You almost done? The food’s getting cold.”

James’ announcement makes Thomas curse under his breath. “Yeah, I'm just about-” _fuck_ he didn't bring a change of clothes in with him. “I need to get dressed, that's all.”

“Alright, hurry up, we have things to talk about.”

The jolt of fear Thomas feels is irrational, there's no way James knows. If he did, he would have burst in here to start mothering Thomas. Thomas lets out a steadying breath, hands curled around the sink. He repacks the first-aid kit, stuffing the trash as far down the trash can as he can. The towel he wraps around his shoulders, keeping the bloodied parts on the inside. He grabs a second towel and wraps it around his waist. There's nothing he can do about his feet, so Thomas just prays James has left the bedroom. Thomas cracks open the door, sticking his head out first.

James is standing there, making Thomas’ bed for him. _James,_ Thomas thinks, _I love and appreciate you, but this is the one day you need to not do this._ Thomas almost pulls his head back inside, but James looks up at the last second. Thomas smiles, fighting down the anxiety bubbling in his chest. James smiles back, a small thing.

“Thomas,” James says. Thomas braces himself, praying the next words out his friend’s mouth aren't _I know what happened with Seabury._ James takes a breath, and Thomas fights to keep his face neutral.

“I wanted to apologize.”

Thomas blinks, unable to stop the confusion and surprise from spreading across his face. “I'm sorry, what?”

James flips the last corner of Thomas’ comforter into place. “I shouldn’t have made you walk yesterday, I’m sorry.”

_No, no you really shouldn’t have,_ Thomas thinks. But he shakes his head. “It’s fine James.”

“No, it’s not. It was kind of a dick move. I was annoyed, and I figured you would have just stuck around waiting for me,” James admits. “Never thought you’d actually start walking alone.

“Oh, well,” Thomas grips the edge of the door, carefully making sure James can’t see anything but Thomas’ head. “It’s no big deal.”

“Still,” James says. He crosses his arms and takes a step towards Thomas’ door.

“You’re forgiven, if that’s what you’re waiting on,” Thomas replies. James offers a half-smile.

“Well, that’s not all.”

Thomas groans internally. “Can we talk about this while I’ve got clothes on?”

“Suddenly shy around me?” James teases. “We shared a dorm Thomas.”

“Yeah, but…” Thomas bites the bullet. “What else did you want to say?”

“I wanted to say that I’m proud of you.” James’ half-smile fills out as Thomas’ stomach drops. “You’ve really turned around in the last couple of days. You’re getting along with the Sons, making smart choices, and I haven’t even seen you take any painkillers.”

“Thanks,” Thomas chokes out, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as strained as it feels.

“I mean it Thomas. I was really worried about you for a while, but I guess it was all unfounded.”

“That means a lot to me James,” Thomas admits, suddenly very aware of the bandages and rubbing his skin and the pain across his body.

“This doesn’t excuse you disappearing yesterday,” James says. Thomas groans internally. _There’s the other shoe_.

“You sent me to walk. I ran into Lafayette and Hamilton after getting lost. I decided to ‘make connections,’ as you put it.”

“You could have picked up your phone,” James points out. “We didn’t know where you were for six hours, and then you never called in!”

“I was busy,” Thomas shoots back.

“Doing what?”

“ _Making connections,_ I said!”

James’ lips purse, he takes a breath and Thomas thinks for a second that he’s gone too far. But James sighs and shakes his head.

“Just get downstairs. Steuben _hates_ it when he has to reheat food.”

“Be down in a second.” Thomas feels the relief start to rise in him, watching James cross to the door. Just as Thomas thinks he’s in the clear, James turns around one more time.

“By the way, did you want someone to look at your hand?”

Thomas’ heart stops. “No, I’m good. Got it covered.” He sticks the bandaged hand in question out into the room to show James the rewrapping. “We don’t have any gauze, and need more band-aids.”

“Gotcha. I’ll get Louis to restock.” With that James _finally_ leaves Thomas alone. Thomas sags against the doorframe in relief. Sending a ‘thank you’ to God, Thomas emerges from the bedroom and makes his way over to his dresser as quickly as possible. He throws on a shirt before James has a chance to come back. Pants take a little while longer, thanks to the need to bend over, but Thomas pushes through the complaints in his body.

_This is just how I have to function now,_ he thinks. He finds socks, puts them on while sitting on his bed, then reaches for the nightstand drawer. Inside, he digs through the assorted junk until he pulls out the little white Tylenol bottle he’d stashed there. _Haven’t been taking painkillers my ass._ Thomas opens the bottle, frowns when he sees how few are left. The bottle had been full when he’d bought it after the concussions.

Thomas swallows three, then reconsiders. He takes a fourth before burying the bottle again.

Thomas just about leaves the bedroom before he remembers the bloodstained towel. After a moment’s consideration, figuring he doesn’t have much time left, Thomas wads it up and throws it under his bed. He makes a mental note to deal with it later, and heads out the door.

Thomas makes it down the short hallway before pausing at the top of the staircase. _This is about to suck_ , he thinks. And it’s not like he can take it slow, either, not without attracting concern. So he braces himself, sucks in a breath, and goes for it.

Thomas bounds down the stairs with as much energy and enthusiasm as he can muster, smiling through the pain. Each footfall is a flare of bright pain, but Thomas certainly doesn’t let it show. He hits the floor landing with a little bounce, stepping into the kitchen with false gusto. The girls have already arrived, everyone but Steuben and Thomas himself are already seated at the table.

“Look who’s finally up!” Steuben calls, glancing over his shoulder at Thomas. He’s standing at the stove, one hand on a sauce pan. Thomas grins brightly at him, grateful when he can fall into a chair and kick his feet up on the table. “I was just about to toss your sausage.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Thomas teases. Steuben rolls his eyes and slides Thomas’ breakfast on a plate.

“Could you maybe not put your dirty socks on the table?” Louis drawls. Thomas shrugs, settling further into his seat. As Steuben brings Thomas his first home cooked meal in weeks, Thomas looks around the table.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“I’ve got a couple of ideas,” James says.

\-------------

Two hours later, Thomas finds himself- where else- at _The Fighting Frenchman._ The neon lights are dimmed, and one of the pride flags has come slightly off it’s stand. It flutters in a harsh breeze, one corner coming off slightly. _Someone ought to fix that before it gets worse_ , Thomas thinks as he knocks on the heavy door. Thomas hears someone fiddling with the lock, and a moment later the door swings open.

“Clark, _mon ami_ ,” Lafayette says, voice cheery. “Come in. Lewis said you were coming!” As Thomas slides into the lit nightclub, Lafayette holds out his arms wide. Without really thinking about it, Thomas accepts the hug, pulling the other man into an embrace. Lafayette hugs harder than Thomas would have guessed, squeezing the taller man hard enough that Thomas is almost worried he’ll crack a rib.

“How are you?” Lafayette asks, words a breathy whisper in Thomas’ ear.

“Fine,” Thomas replies, trying his best to return the strength of the arms wrapped around him. Lafayette hums.

“Are you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Thomas hisses back, pulling out of the hug. Lafayette’s mouth is set in a hard line, eyes flicking across Thomas’ face. Thomas meets their searching gaze with as much conviction he can muster. Eventually, Lafayette shakes their head slightly, and turns Thomas around.

“Alex is here,” Lafayette announces, one arm clamped around Thomas’ shoulders. Thomas ignores the twisting in his gut and cocked one eyebrow.

“And?” Thomas does his best to sound as disinterested as possible. Lafayette just rolls their eyes and leads Thomas in the direction of their office. Thomas notices that the doorknob is back on, but attached with more ducttape than Thomas would have figured. Lafayette pulls the door open and pushes Thomas inside.

“...he’s not gonna-” Hamilton cuts himself off mid sentence as Thomas stumbles into the room. The shorter man spins, and Thomas feels a kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight in his stomach. Hamilton’s usually messy hair is slicked back into a near-perfect ponytail, with just a few strands left hanging to frame his face in just the right way. He’s dressed in a low-cut shirt and a leather jacket that _does things_ to Thomas. Dark skinny jeans show _everything_ Hamilton’s working with and Thomas’ brain short-circuits.

_Fuuuuuuck_ , he thinks, realizing he’s staring. Thomas feels his face heat up as he tears his eyes away from the tempting sight in front of him. Laurens is perched on Lafayette’s desk, a wicked smirk on his face. Hamilton clears his throat, and Thomas gaze is drawn instantly back to him.

“Hey,” Hamilton says. “What’s up?”

Thomas- half his brain still working on taking in everything he’s seeing- stutters out a “I.. uh, not much. You?” Thomas swallows thickly. _Jesus_ Hamilton looks good.

Thomas blinks. _This is not helping_ , he realizes. Hamilton shrugs. “Nothing,” he replies.

“ _El te está revisando,_ ” Laurens says and Hamilton’s face flushes.

“ _Cállate y no me jodas_ ,” Hamilton mutters. He leans against Lafayette’s desk, hips jutting out towards Thomas. The look he’s giving Thomas is going straight to where Thomas doesn’t want it to. “So, what so you want?” He asks Thomas, lips curling around the last word with a smirk. Thomas starts, heart pounding in his ears.

“Eaker,” Thomas blurts, “I want to check up on him.” Something flickers across Hamilton’s face in an eye twitch.

“In the basement.” Lafayette points to the closed door. “Alex, why don’t you go with him?” The ask, almost pointedly.

“Sure,” Hamilton says, not arguing for once. He crosses the room, passing Thomas and opening up the door to the depths of the club. Hamilton starts down the stairs, and Thomas follows, getting an eye-full of Hamilton’s ass. Thomas glues his eyes to the ceiling, fumbling down the stairs so he doesn’t look. Looking is just going to make Thomas’ little problem worse.

Thomas hits the bottom of the stairs just after Hamilton, who scoots out of the way so Thomas can see into the dimly lit room. It _smells,_ the harsh tang of blood and sweat hangs in the air. Philip sits on a plywood table, arms crossed and slouched back into the wall. If Philip is surprised to see him, he doesn’t react. “Sup?” He greets Thomas, and Thomas nods back, but is far too distracted by the man still tied to the chair.

Eaker looks so much worse than Thomas remembers. One of his eyes is a deep purple color and swollen shut. He sports a busted lip, and the side of his head is matted with blood. Eaker glares up at Thomas, jaw set.

“Is it your turn?” Eaker asks, voice harsh and scratchy. Thomas’ stomach churns. The ropes holding Eaker to his seat are stained with blood, and the scraped, bruised skin of Thomas’ own wrists and ankles burns in sympathy. Then he sees Eaker’s obviously broken fingers and a flare of rage snaps inside Thomas.

“Has he been out of the chair?” Thomas asks, not moving his eyes away from the captured man. “At all?”

“Once or twice a day for the bathroom,” Philip replies. “Why?” Thomas turns to Hamilton, the other man leaning against the wall.

“Go get a first-aid kit,” Thomas mutters. Hamilton starts, coming off the wall in surprise.

“Wha-”

“You heard me,” Thomas commands. Hamilton hesitates, scanning Thomas’ face, then nods and starts up the stairs. Thomas catches a glimpse of Philips’ confused face, but Thomas’ gaze is drawn to the wall of tools. Saws, knives, screwdrivers and power tools line shelves the wall opposite the stairs. Some bear bloody rust stains, and Thomas feels a hint of bile crawl up his throat. He crosses to the wall and grabs a box cutter, pushing the blade open.

“What’re you…” Philip trails, but Thomas is already striding back to Eaker, knife in hand. Eaker visibly braces himself, matching Thomas’ gaze with cold determination.

“Ankles or wrists?” Thomas asks. Eaker’s eye narrows.

“If you think you’re going to get anything from me, you’re dead wrong,” Eaker spits. There’s blood on his teeth, staining the inside of Eaker’s mouth red. Thomas frowns.

“Ankles or wrists first?” He asks again, coming to a stop before the tied up man.

“The other one couldn’t break me, what do _you_ think-”

“Choose or I’m picking for you,” Thomas demands. Hamilton comes trotting back down the stairs, a small box in his hands. Eaker growls, glaring at Thomas with as much hatred as possible. Which is fair, Thomas supposes. Without an answer, Thomas reaches for Eaker’s left wrist, bringing the knife close to his skin.

“Ankles,” Eaker breathes. Thomas freezes. “If you’re giving me a choice, ankles first.” Thomas nods mutely, then drops to his knees.

“Hamilton,” Thomas says, holding one hand out. A moment later, Thomas is handed the small plastic box and Thomas puts it on the ground in front of him. Thomas leans to the right, grabbing onto the leg of the chair, and cleanly slices open the rope holding Eaker’s leg back. The rope falls to the floor, and Thomas drops the knife next to it.

“What are you…” Hamilton asks. Thomas looks up, finding both Eaker’s and Hamilton’s expressions to be ones of confusion and shock. Thomas turns his attention to Eaker, however, as he says:

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” Eaker’s expression turns guardedly dumbfounded. He doesn’t respond, not even with a nod, and Thomas grits his teeth. Slowly, Thomas rolls up Eaker’s pant leg to reveal the bloodied, torn, rope burned skin. It’s a thick band of injured flesh, and Thomas grimaces at it. He reaches down to the first aid kit and pops it open.

The room is dead silent as Thomas fishes out disinfectant and a roll of gauze and gets to work. Eaker hisses slightly as Thomas dabs alcohol onto his open wounds. A hand comes down on Thomas’ shoulder and Thomas flinches at the contact.

“What are you doing?” Hamilton asks, gripping Thomas’ shoulder.

“Bandaging him up,” Thomas replies, wiping away what blood he caused to flow.

“Why?” Hamilton asks. Thomas sets his jaw and keeps working. Hamilton squeezes harder. “ _Why_?”

“Because I had to do it to myself this morning,” Thomas admits, glaring up at Hamilton. The other man’s eyes widen in understanding. Hamilton lets go of Thomas to fall to his knees beside him, reaching over for the box cutter. Thomas watches, warily from the corner of his eye, as Hamilton cuts the bindings on Eaker’s other leg and follows Thomas’ lead.

Thomas lets out a breath of relief as he drops the alcohol wipe on the floor and grabs the gauze. Carefully, he wraps Eaker’s exposed wounds tightly. When he’s finished, he looks up at Eaker to find that the man is utterly bewildered. Thomas pats the bindings gently.

“Roll it around a couple of times,” he says, letting go of Eaker’s leg. Surprisingly, the captured man does as instructed, making slow circles with his foot. In the meanwhile, Thomas looks over his shoulder to a concerned Philip.

“Is this really a good idea?” The young man asks. Thomas nods, but Philip still looks hesitant.

“You have more rope, I’m assuming,” Thomas says. Philip nods, reaching down to dig in a drawer before pulling out a loop of the same stuff Thomas had cut Eaker loose from. Philip tosses it back to Thomas, who holds it in his hands. It’s exceedingly coarse, no wonder it ripped open the skin. But it’s also no thicker than two of Thomas’ fingers together.

“Can’t we just let his feet be?” Thomas asks, glancing over at Philip. Philip shakes his head. “Why not?”

“Because I said so,” Philip replies. “The Boss put me in charge of him and I’m not risking anything.”

Thomas looks back at Eaker, who still hasn’t looked away from Thomas. As Hamilton wraps Eaker’s other ankle up, Thomas sighs. “I gotta,” he says, looking down at the coiled rope. Reluctantly, Thomas ties Eaker’s ankle back to the chair, though not as tight as it used to be. Eaker still can’t pull free, but it’s not biting into his flesh anymore. The bindings keep the rope from direct contact anyway.

Thomas repeats his actions with Eaker’s wrists, untying one at a time to a silent disbelief from the Redcoat. Hamilton takes a long time even finishing one leg, so Thomas is working on Eaker’s second wrist by the time Hamilton's’ done. Thomas works in silence, trying to forget that this is partially _his_ fault. Eaker honestly looks beyond confused, watching Thomas with one wide eye. Thomas accidently meets his gaze and give him a weak smile.

“What? Want me to pinch you?” He jokes softly. Eaker’s jaw works, grinding his teeth together. “I can’t do much else, I’m sorry,” Thomas admits.

“Why do anything at all?” Eaker breathes. Thomas winces, looking down at the wrist he’s tying back down. The white gauze contrasts against Eaker’s dirty skin. _At least some of the blood is gone,_ Thomas thinks.

“Why?” Eaker pushes. When Thomas still doesn’t answer, he collapses back into his chair. “This has got to be some trick,” he mutters. Thomas shakes his head.

“No trick,” he says.

“How can I believe that?” Eaker spits. Thomas sighs, securing the rope’s final knot. He grabs another alcohol wipe and starts on Eaker’s face. He cleans as much as he can from Eaker’s head and dabs at his lip.

“I’d get you ice, but that probably wouldn’t fly with the others,” Thomas admits. He looks down at Eaker’s broken, bruised fingers and sighs again. “I can wrap those, but…” He hears Eaker take a breath, can almost hear the gears turning in the other man’s head.

“What’s stopping you?” Eaker asks. Thomas hesitates, then shrugs.

“Nothing, I suppose.” Thomas reaches for the gauze and does his best to make-shift a splint without sticks. “There. Like I said, not much, but better than nothing.” Thomas steps back, scanning his work. Eaker looks better, if just a little bit. Thomas nods to himself. _Alright, a job well done_ , he thinks. _Now if I could only get him out of here_.

It’s a fruitless track to pursue, Thomas knows. He can feel Hamilton’s and Philips’ eyes on him as he retreats from Eaker. Thomas looks back at them. “That’s all I wanted,” he says. “Just to make sure he’s okay.”

Hamilton nods, understanding across his face. Philip, however, eyes Thomas with barely contained suspicion. The expression on the youngest man’s face takes Thomas back slightly, though a second later it makes sense. Thomas _did_ just treat a Redcoat’s injuries. Thomas nods to Philip, and makes for the stars. He can’t stand to be here anymore, not in the stench and Eaker’s gaze on him.

When Thomas makes it back up the stairs, it feels like a breath of fresh air. He takes a deep breath, trying to expel the remains of the basement air from his lungs. Laurens and Lafayette are still there, chatting quietly, but they look up when Thomas re-emerges.

“What was the medical stuff for?” Laurens asks.

“For Eaker,” Thomas says, daring Laurens to argue. The freckled man grits his jaw, but says nothing. Lafayette offers Thomas a small smile. Thomas returns it, stepping out of the way for Hamilton to come up the stairs behind him.

“Well, I’m off then,” Thomas says. “That’s all I needed.” The other men in the room start, Lafayette coming out of their desk chair.

“That’s it?” Lafayette asks. Thomas nods.

“See you three around.” Thomas gives a little wave goodbye, heading out of Lafayette’s office and towards the main front door. As he leaves, he hears Laurens hiss:

“Did you do it?”

“ _Oh yeah_ , because I was going to do it down…” Hamilton’s muttered reply is lost as Thomas moves away. He can still hear a small argument kick up behind him, but Thomas doesn’t stop to listen. Whatever it is, it’s not his business. The muttered voices get louder, at some point, Lafayette shouts something like ‘get out there and do it then!’ Thomas’ hand is on the club door, ready to leave when-

“Thomas, wait!” Hamilton comes jogging out of the office. Thomas turns, faster and more excitedly than he should.

“What?” He asks. Hamilton skids to a stop next to Thomas.

“Where are you going?” Hamilton asks. Laurens and Lafayette stand at the open doorway, not even trying to be inconspicuous as they listen in. Thomas pauses, thinking.

“Probably going to stop for lunch, then back to the precinct, why?”

Hamilton nods to himself. “Well, if you’re going for lunch, I’m coming with you. I haven’t eaten all day,” he explains. Thomas blinks, feeling his heart flip at the thought of lunch with Hamilton. _No, bad idea Thomas, bad idea._

“It’s going to be fast food,” Thomas warns. Hamilton shrugs.

“That’s fine,” Hamilton says. Thomas looks back at the other two people in the club.

“They wanna come or…?”

Hamilton fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I figured it would be just you and me,” he admits. “You know, like… like a-”

The ringing of Thomas’ phone cuts off Hamilton’s words. Hamilton’s mouth snaps shut as Thomas winces, digging out his phone from his pocket. It’s his brother, but Thomas sees an opportunity.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says, but declines the call. Thomas puts the phone up to his eat anyway. Hamilton nods, sticks his hands in his pockets and takes a step back. _Perfect,_ Thomas thinks, _now to come up with an excuse…_ Maybe it’s because his brain is stuck on Hamilton and the idea of going to lunch with him, but Thomas has what might be the worst idea he’s ever come up with, but he’s crunched for time so it’s all he’s got.

“Hey babe,” Thomas says, letting a smile stretch across his face. Hamilton starts, looking up at Thomas in confusion. Thomas lets the ‘other person speak,’ then says: “No this isn’t a bad time. What’s up?” Thomas pauses again, running through an imaginary conversation in his head. He can’t wait too long, can’t be too fast either. He has to sell this. “Out early?” Thomas turns away from Hamilton, like he wants to keep the conversation private. He can still feel Hamilton’s eyes on his back. “Lunch?” Thomas hums. “Yeah, of course.”

Thomas turns, mouths a ‘sorry’ at Hamilton, and turns back around. “Are you free this afternoon?” Thomas pauses. “Wonderful.” He lets his tone slip a little lower, draws out the accent. “I was thinking, you know, after lunch, I could call off… We could have the entire condo to ourselves…” Thomas chuckles. “I’m sure the others won’t mind… Alright love, it’s a plan.” Thomas coos some silly goodbye and ‘hangs up.’

“Sorry Hamilton, I have lunch plans now…” Thomas trails off when he turns around to see Hamilton's’ expression. Every ounce of color has drained from Hamilton’s face, but it all comes rushing back in an instant, and Hamilton turns bright red.

“Who was that?” He asks, no, _demands_.

“No one important,” Thomas replies. Hamilton’s face turns a shade redder.

“Obviously they are,” he spits. “ _Who was it?_ ”

“No one!” Thomas insists, insides twisting at the irony.

“Oh, so you made plans to fuck no one?” Hamilton hackles rise, frown turning into a sneer.

“I didn’t-”

“ _We could have the entire condo to ourselves_ ,” Hamilton repeats, voice steadily rising in volume. Thomas’ stomach drops, but he steels himself.

“Well, maybe I did. What does it matter to you?” Thomas lets the familiar veneer of disgust and condescending gaze mask the growing sense of guilt. _Why does Hamilton care so much_?

“You said last night you were single!” Hamilton snaps.

“I said I wasn’t _engaged_. I never said anything about being single,” Thomas counters. Hamilton’s nostrils flare.

“Well who is it, huh? It’s Lewis, isn’t it. You’re fucking Lewis!” Hamilton’s fists clench at his sides. There’s nothing but rage and steel in his eyes. Thomas can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, can feel actual anger start to boil inside of him.

“And what if I am?” He snaps back on impulse. Hamilton’s eyes go wide, his mouth works to speak but no words come out. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“You said-” Hamilton steps back from Thomas, “you said you didn’t love him.”

“I said I wasn’t _in love_ , there’s a difference.”

“Oh, so you’re just fuckbuddies?!” Hamilton screeches. “That’s it? You’re sleeping with a man so obviously head-over-heels for you and you think you’re just _fuckbuddies_?”

“Lewis isn’t-”

“ _Oh come on!_ How can you be so _damn_ oblivious?! I- Lewis-” Hamilton’s breath is coming in short spurts now, his rage rendering him unable to take a full breath. “God! You can’t see what’s right in front of you, can you? Or do you see it? How many people do you just lead on for kicks?”

“What the hell are you talking about Hamilton?” Thomas interrupts. Hamilton grits his teeth, _snarls_ , and says:

“It doesn’t fucking matter, does it?” Hamilton pulls back, backpedaling towards Laurens and Lafayette. “I hope you have a good time with _Lewis_ ,” Hamilton spits the name like a curse. “I hope you two get in a car crash and _die_ on your way to fuck.”

Thomas starts, the sheer _vitriol_ of Hamilton’s comeback taking him by surprise. The shorter man is glaring at him like he could strangle Thomas with his bare hands. Without breaking eye contact, Hamilton says: “John, let’s go.”

“What?” Laurens asks.

“I want to get drunk. Let’s go!” Hamilton glares at his friend, who crosses the club quickly. Hamilton pushes past Thomas and heaves open the door. Sunlight streams in for a brief moment as Hamilton pauses, flips Thomas off, and leaves.

The moment the door slides shut behind the two gangsters, Thomas deflates. An audible breath leaves his lungs as his shoulders droop.

“Oh _mon ami_ ,” Lafayette breathes, “you fucked up.”

Thomas glances over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” He asks, though Thomas is almost perfectly aware of what Lafayette means. Hamilton hates him now. For sure. _That’s exactly what I want_ , Thomas justifies. _He can hate me, and nothing will happen. I’ll get over this damn crush_.

“How do you still not know?” Lafayette sighs and shakes their head. “You better get going. Don’t want to be late for your lunch date,” they say. Thomas nods, silently, and waits a moment by the door before slipping out.

_This is fine_ , Thomas thinks, feeling his own heart shatter into a thousand pieces. _This is absolutely fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess I can never let anyone be happy.
> 
> Also apologies for the later-in-the-day update, AO3 was down this morning and I was out with a friend all day.
> 
> The Spanish basically translates to:
> 
> John: "He's checking you out."
> 
> Ham: "Shut up and fuck off."
> 
> See you Saturday


	32. The Triad of Dickishness Is Complete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To sum up:
> 
> Two chapters ago Alex pulled a dick move.
> 
> Last time Thomas pulled a bigger dick move.
> 
> Now I pull the biggest dick move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more signs of developing PTSD, and referenced nightmares.

Thomas picks up take-out alone and trudges back to the precinct, trying to think about anything _but_ Hamilton. It’s a fruitless endeavor, something inevitably pulls Thomas’ mind back to the little man and the accompanying ache in his chest. _It’s for the best_ , is what Thomas keeps telling himself. It’s not a lie, but it certainly feels like one.

When Thomas eventually makes it back to the precinct, he walks in on James delivering a short briefing to Sybil and a collection of detectives. None of Thomas’ other team members are in sight, but James is running this short presentation like he owns the entire building.

“Currently, we have a list of suspects- including Reynolds, Seabury, other Redcoats and even a Sons member under suspicion of turning sides.” James has a series of photographs projected onto a whiteboard, and he points to each photo as he rambles off names. Thomas sees Reynolds’ and Seabury’s photos in the upper right hand, though the rest of the pictures are of people he doesn’t recognize.

“And finally,” James levels his laser pointer at the lower-left hand corner, “Charles Lee, a Sons soldier under Nathan Knox who might be another Benedict Arnold. There’s some proof that he sabotaged a Sons raid on Club Monmouth, which is a country club in New Jersey that King uses to launder money through. It’s not definitive proof, and Washington seems to believe it was an honest mistake, but sources tell us most of the rest of leadership greatly dislikes him.”

Thomas slides into a seat in the back of the briefing, and he swears James looks dead at him, but doesn’t acknowledge Thomas’ entrance. “It seems like Lee has been kept out of the loop when it comes to important information, and one informant says that Lee is a ‘Son in name only,’ and that Laurens and Hamilton block him from doing much anymore.”

Thomas studies the picture, a young man with a half-shaved haircut and a condescending smirk despite the fact he’s obviously in a mug shot. _Hamilton doesn’t like this guy_ , Thomas thinks. _Fuck you Charles Lee._

James lowers the pointer and addresses the gathering directly. “And that’s it. Copies of the list and the suspects’ addresses are by the door. You’ve each been given someone to look into, and you are to report back to me, alright?” There’s a mutter of ascension from the group and James dismisses them all. People get up and shuffle about around Thomas, already breaking into small groups to chat. James waits until most of them are gone before shutting off the projector and making his way back to Thomas.

“How’s Eaker?” James asks by way of greeting.

“Hi James, how are you?” Thomas replies, “I’m great, thanks for asking.”  James just rolls his eyes and shakes his head fondly. “As for Eaker, he’s not great, but I managed to patch him up some.”

“You did?” James quirks an eyebrow. “The Sons let you do that?”

Thomas nods. “Yeah,” he says. The rest of the sentence, _Hamilton helped me_ , would lead James to more questions; ones that Thomas didn’t want to answer. James just looks at him in surprise.

“I guess you really are worming your way in there,” he says. Thomas swallows thickly, but nods. _Might have fucked it up today,_ Thomas thinks, though doesn’t speak. He’s starting to realize that there’s a lot of things about this assignment he’s never going to get to tell James, not for a very long time at least.

“What’s this suspect list for?” Thomas motions in the direction of the stack of papers and photos.

“Safe Harbors,” James says simply. Thomas starts, eyebrows scrunching together.

“We have a list for Safe Harbors and no one told me?” Thomas asks, leaning forward in his seat. James shrugs.

“We only put it together last night,” James explains. “You’ve been busy.”

Thomas flinches internally. _If only James knew what I’ve been busy with_ , he thinks. “I should have been told, at least. I am assignment leader.”

James cocks one eyebrow, one of the most withering looks James can give, and turns around. Thomas blinks, not understanding.

“What’s that look supposed to mean?” He asks incredulously. James shakes his head, walking over to the front of the room and starting to collect loose sheets of paper. Thomas’ eyebrows start to creep up his face. “James, seriously.”

“You can’t be serious.” James looks up from the steadily growing pile in his hands. Thomas scoffs, crossing his arms. James straightens, the disbelief growing on his face. “Come on Thomas.”

“Am I missing something?” Thomas asks. “Did Farnese call and replace me while I was out? Did I _dream_ getting lead?”

James puts his papers down on the table in front of him. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“Why yes, I think I do.” Thomas stands from his seat. “Go ahead. Spell it out for me, since you offered.” James’ expression goes neutral, jaw clenched.

“You don’t have to be a dick,” James replies, voice carefully even.

“Am I being a dick, or are you just avoiding the question?” Thomas leans sideways, against the table, jaw set. James lets out an exasperated breath.

“Thomas… _Jesus_ ,” James looks up at the ceiling. Thomas waits, lips pursed. “You’re still team leader, _technically_.”

“Technically?” Thomas asks. James looks down and at him, fists rolling against the desk.

“Well, Thomas, you’ve barely been actually _leading_ since… since the concussions,” James says. “ _I’ve_ been making all the decisions, _you’ve_ been off undercover.”

Thomas recoils. “That’s not true,” he starts. James cocks an eyebrow.

“Isn’t it?” He asks. Thomas opens his mouth, ready to speak but he just stumbles over his own words.

“Of c- no!- Jesus- I-” James looks thoroughly unimpressed as Thomas tries to order his thoughts. “That’s not true and you know it,” is what Thomas settles on, _knowing_ how lame his comeback is even as he delivers it. James just sighs and goes back to picking cleaning up the meeting room.

“Look, Thomas, I know how much you need to succeed. I’ve been telling everyone that we’re making decisions together. Think about how impressed Farnese is going to be when the job is over, and you and I can tell him you did everything while under deep cover.” James hits the edge of the stack on the table, evening it out in his hands. He crosses the room to Thomas.

“I’m trying to help you out here, Thomas. I’m sorry if it came off wrong, but…” James sighs. “I just want what’s best for everyone.”

Thomas blinks dumbly, emptily at his friend. “You can’t be serious.”

“What do you mean?” James asks.

“You’re just… taking my position from me?” Thomas asks, feeling the anger start to boil within him. James starts, leaning away from Thomas.

“I don’t want to-”

“But you have anyway,” Thomas growls. “You don’t think I can do this either, do you?” James’ mouth falls open wordlessly. “You think I can’t handle this.”

“No!” James protests. “Any other assignment, this wouldn’t happen! You got thrown off your game on day one.”

“I am not ‘off my game.’”

“What the hell is wrong with you Thomas?” James asks.

“What’s wrong with me?” Thomas spits. “What’s wrong with _you_? Actively going behind my back!”

“I’m doing my damn job while _you_ are off traipsing with gangsters!” James’ hands curl around the sides of his stack of papers.

“‘Traipsing with gangsters?’” Thomas feels his lips curl around the phrase. “I’m the one actually carrying out the plan! Without me, we’d be nowhere!”

“I’m not saying you haven’t done anything-”

“Really? Because that’s what it sounded like you were saying!”

“ _I’m saying you haven’t been acting as a leader!”_ James slams the papers on the desk. “You’re doing what you did under Louis: go undercover and listen to orders. Which is fine, except you’re supposed to be _giving_ the orders now! So you need to either step up and do your job, _which you begged for may I remind you_ , or let me do it for you.”

“If you kept me informed, I could do my job!” Thomas counters, feeling his voice start to rise. “You’re the one who’s decided to go ahead and do things without even _letting me know you’re doing anything!_ ”

“You disappeared for a whole day yesterday!” Thomas flinches, but James keeps going, “What was I supposed to do? Let everything stop while you… I don’t even know what you were up to yesterday Thomas. Would you like to keep _me_ informed?”

Thomas bites his tongue, the truth of yesterday on his lips. James glares, waiting for Thomas to speak. The silence stretches on, both men staring the other down. Eventually, James just sighs.

“Thomas,” James breathes. “I have been bending and breaking the rules letting you even stay here. I am _trying,_ okay? Please stop yelling at me and acting like I’m the villain here. I know you’re under a lot of stress and you’ve been injured, but that doesn't excuse your attitude. I mean, what has gotten into you? Was I wrong this morning when I said you’ve turned a corner?”

Thomas swallows thickly. “No, I…” he trails.

“Then what is it Thomas?” James asks. “Why do you keep...acting like this?”

Thomas bows his head, choosing to look at the desk. _Because Seabury and Theodosia and Hamilton and Ben and Hamilton and Seabury and-_ “This whole assignment is a mess,” Thomas mutters. “I should have just let Farnese put you in charge.”

“Maybe, but that’s not what happened.” James comes over, putting his hands on Thomas’ shoulders. “Look at me, Thomas.” Reluctantly, Thomas picks up his eyes. “It’s all going to be okay. I’m sorry I shouted. We’re all getting pulled in a thousand directions and with what happened to Ben, and… You’re right. I should be better about keeping you in the loop.”

“No, you’re right. I’ve been…” Thomas lets out a shaking breath. He looks down at his ruined hand. James follows his gaze as he waits for Thomas to speak. “I’ve been not all there,” Thomas admits. James nods his understanding. “I just don’t want to lose this job.”

“You won’t, not if I have anything to say about it.” James smiles, and Thomas meets it as well as he can. “This whole thing has just been a clusterfuck. It has nothing to do to with you, you just got the short end of the stick. Come here.”

James pulls Thomas into a hug over the table, and suddenly Thomas is hit with a pang of guilt. He’s hiding so much from James. It almost feels like high school all over again. _Tell him_ , a voice in the back of his head urges. _He’ll understand. It’s James._

_I can’t,_ Thomas thinks. _Not yet_.

_Why not? When? Days, months, years? When he accidentally walks in on you without shoes and socks? It’s just one more confession._

A memory surfaces:

_Thomas watches his parents walk away from the dorm building, his mom looking back for one final tearful wave before his father pulls her along. He pulls away from the window, letting the curtain fall. James grunts as he lifts a pile of clothing from his suitcase._

_“That’s it,” Thomas says. “They’re gone. We’re on our own.”_

_“Mhm,” James hums. Thomas turns, watching struggle as socks fall from the edge of his bed. “College starts now.”_

_“Holy shit,” Thomas breathes. He glances around the bare, small room. Finally, he’s here. Away from his parents, away from Virginia, away from everything and here with James and the rest of his life stretching out in front of him. He feels giddy, the freedom already making his stomach flip and his head rush with emotion. James looks up at him with that little smile on his face and-_

_“I’m gay.” The words tumble from Thomas’ lips like a practiced motion, not a first time confession. Said aloud, they almost seem innocent of the years of panic they’ve caused Thomas. Two simple little words, said in a rush, and Thomas almost doesn’t process the implications of what he’s said until James’ eyebrows shoot up._

_“What?” James asks. Thomas’ joy instantly fades, the reality of his confession sinking in. From the look on James’ face, it’s obvious that he_ heard _Thomas, that he knows what Thomas said. Thomas swallows, his throat suddenly dry._

_“I said I’m gay,” he repeats, voice so much smaller than the first time. He feels frozen inside, watching James slowly put down the shirt in his hands, stand straight and look up at Thomas. James takes a step forward, then another, the small room not offering much distance and Thomas suddenly wishes there was a football field between them. James comes up close, and Thomas doesn’t know what to expect, but what he gets isn’t it._

_James wraps his arms around Thomas’ middle and squeezes tight. Thomas starts, feeling the ice in his chest start to melt slightly. Thomas slowly brings his arms up and returns the hug, still unsure of himself. James lets out a breath._

_“I’m proud of you,” is all James says. And just like that, Thomas knows that James understands. That James accepts him and knows why Thomas never said anything earlier. Thomas drops his head to put his chin on James’ head, the smaller man being almost encompassed in Thomas’ sheer height._

_“Thank you,” is all Thomas gets out. James nods, pulling back just enough to look at Thomas’ face._

_“How long have you known?” He asks. Thomas sighs._

_“A while,” he responds. “Since… since before Sam and Peter.”_

_“And you held it back for four years?” Thomas nods, and James sighs. “You were dealing with that while your brothers…”_

_“Yeah,” Thomas says, holding James tighter._

_“It’s okay,” James says. “You’re okay.”_

Thomas’ arms squeeze James tighter. _Remember?_ The voice says. _He’s your friend._

_This is too different. He’ll send me away, and that’s the crux of the matter._ _I’ll tell him when it’s all over,_ Thomas promises himself. _When it’s all over_.

\------------

The rest of the day is productive, if awkward. It seems like everyone and their mother knows that Thomas and James argued. And now that Thomas is looking for it, he can see how everyone seems to be deferring to James. He doesn’t say anything, but each time Sally, Martha or Louis asks James a question that _should_ be asked Thomas, he feels another snap of annoyance and anxiety.

It doesn’t help that every time someone leans over his shoulder to show him something, or a door slams too hard, or someone brushes past him Thomas can feel his heartbeat pick up. A secretary accidentally nudges Thomas on her way to the bathroom and he practically jumps away from her touch. He often finds himself sitting with his back to a wall, window blinds drawn shut in the team meeting room and the door in his sight.

They get a lot of work done, however. Half of James’ suspect list is crossed off by the time everyone starts going home for the evening. Reynolds and Seabury almost seem like locks for actually being at Safe Harbors, Father Monk picked Seabury’s picture out of a line up and everything. If Reynolds is the mysterious ‘James,’ and Seabury is the British voice, then they’re just missing two shooters.

Someone raises an objection to Seabury having an accent, and Thomas has to bite down on protesting too hard. Seabury has a slight accent, Thomas would know. He still hears Seabury’s voice in dreams, or if he lets his mind wander too far.

Charles Lee is still on the list by the end of the day, along with six other people. John Andre- who’s disappeared with Arnold- is also there, but Thomas honestly doubts it. He can’t see King trusting _two_ people connected with Arnold. But there’s no proof to back him up, so Andre stays.

It’s not until everyone is packing up to leave that Thomas’ thoughts return to Hamilton. He shoves them away as best a possible, lightly joking with James as they finish up organizing a stack of papers. He avoids Sybil after a quick comment from her reminded him too much of the other man dominating his mind.

They make it back to the condo, split a late dinner between the four men, and they all retire to bed. The job is taking a toll on all of them, Thomas can tell. He collapses into bed- ignoring the way his body complains at the sudden impact, and is almost asleep when his phone buzzes.

Thomas picks it up, opening the text message before he really looks at what it is. His eyes fly open when his mind processes what he’s seeing. Hamilton has sent him a picture, one of him and a strange woman with thick black hair. Ruby red lips press against Hamilton’s cheek, and Thomas can see other lipstick marks across Hamilton’s face and lips. Hamilton is smirking into the camera, though the woman’s eyes are shut. Thomas’ stomach drops, his jaw sets. A moment later, a message comes through.

**From: Short Stack:**

**Whoops wrong number.**

Thomas’ blood churns as he stares at the image and accompanying words. _That fuck_ , he thinks. Thomas looks up from his phone, sees where James is already asleep in the other bed. An idea strikes Thomas. Quietly, slowly, so as not to disturb his friend, Thomas climbs into James’ bed. He settles himself around James’ limp form and holds out his phone.

It takes him a minute, but he gets just the right angle to suggest exactly what Thomas _wants_ to suggest, and he smirks. A second later and Thomas slips out of James’ bed with a new picture on his phone. He checks it briefly, making sure his own expression is just right, and sends it to Hamilton. A moment later, he cheekily sends: ‘Whoops, wrong number,’ back.

Thomas waits, watching the time on his phone click closer and closer to eleven. There’s no response from Hamilton in twenty minutes, though Thomas isn’t sure he _wanted_ Hamilton to respond.

Thomas passes out with his phone in his hand.

\------------

Thomas wakes up the next morning drenched in sweat and shaking. His head snaps around as he takes in his still-dark surroundings. It takes him a moment to remember he’s in the condo, not that damned warehouse that haunts his nightmares. He lets out a shuddering breath, hoping he hadn’t screamed aloud. James isn’t awake, and there isn’t a flurry of feet from another room, so Thomas assumes he’s safe.

Part of him wants to reach out, to cross the room and shake James awake. But how to explain it? Thomas is a grown man, a nightmare shouldn’t shake him this badly. If he wakes James, James will _know_ something’s wrong. So James isn’t an option. Neither is Louis or Steuben or the ladies. So he’s just going to have to deal with this on his own. Unless…

It’s a stupid idea, but Thomas _needs_ someone. He’s not above admitting that. And when he unlocks his phone, Hamilton’s chat log is still up. The two pictures from last night are still there, along with their accompanying messages. With shaking, aching fingers, Thomas types out a quick ‘are you awake?’

Thomas stares at the bright screen, feeling the led display burn into his eyes; his head complains at it. _Whatever,_ he thinks, _I can fix the physical pain with Tylenol._ He waits, hoping Hamilton responds. He sees the read receipt, but no response bubble appears.

Five minutes pass before Thomas tries again.

**To: Short Stack:**

**Seriously can you answer?**

Another five minutes.

**To: Short Stack.**

**Look, drop your damn pride for five minutes because that’s what I’m doing and if you could meet me here that would be fan-fucking-tastic.**

The read receipt appears again and Thomas growls lowly.

**To: Short Stack:**

**Look, motherfucker, I need to talk to you.**

“Come on,” Thomas mutters, already typing his next message: ‘don’t make me beg you-’

His phone rings, and Thomas jumps. The little tinkling of sound almost booms in the silence. Thomas glances at the caller ID; relief flooding him when he sees it’s Hamilton. He lets out a breath, glances at James and picks up the call. He slides out of bed, heading for the bathroom. Quietly as possible, he says:

“There you are, I-”

“Good morning Agent Jefferson! Sorry to say, but Alexander is a little tied up at the moment.” George King’s chipper voice comes over the receiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a cheap shot? Maybe.
> 
> Am I doing it anyway? Hell yeah.
> 
> Anyway, my schedule has changed and Saturday updates no longer work for me! So I'm moving them to Fridays, specifically Friday mornings, starting from this week on. Okay? Okay.
> 
> Shoutouts to:
> 
> Whoever commented the lyrics to 'The Sound Of Silence' last chapter I literally fell on the floor laughing when I saw it.
> 
> And LeafMeow, for your incredibly long comment and your current predictions, thanks for sharing!
> 
> Historical/Story notes:
> 
> We'll talk about Thomas' brothers later ;)
> 
> See you Friday!


	33. See, Thomas, Even King Can Figure It Out Faster Than You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure Thomas even really has a plan not going to lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: references to torture, both past and off screen.

Thomas freezes, his whole body stilling. He feels a chill run down his back. “...King?” He asks, hoping he heard wrong.

“Correct! I do apologize for having to pick up someone else’s phone, but you sound like you really need something,” King says. “Although, I am surprised to hear you talking. Sam said you wouldn’t even make noise. Someone did say they saw you on your feet last night, though. Impressive turnaround time. If I had known, I’d have kept you around a little longer. So, what is it you need, hm? I’ve got Alexander right here.”

_“Let me go you fuck!”_  Thomas’ breath catches as he hears Alexander’s screeching from over the phone. “ _Don’t you fucking touch me!_ ”

“Let him go King,” Thomas manages to croak out. James shifts behind him and Thomas remembers he’s not alone. His body awakens long enough to walk Thomas into the bathroom and shut the door quietly.

“No thanks,” King replies. “Besides, that’s not what you could have been texting about. So, what is it love?” Thomas stares at the wooden door in front of him, unable to form words. King sighs. “You’re delaying Sam his fun.”

The fear disappears, instantly replaced with anger. “If you do _anything_ to him, I will fucking kill you,” he hisses. King pauses, like Thomas’ words have caught him off guard, then he starts to laugh.

“Oh, Thomas,” he chuckles. Alexander’s protests fall silent in the background. “You silly man. Of course you won’t kill me, that’s not who you are.”

“Do you want to fucking try me?”

King actually barks a laugh. “You’re funny. Trying to act all tough and scary. We broke you in just four hours. I’m sure Alexander here will last a _long_ while more.”

“What have you done to him?” Thomas demands, feeling a cold hand wrap around his heart.

“Nothing yet.” King sing-songs. “Why do you even care? It’s not like you and Alex are friends. You’re not even on the same side, not really. At the end of the day, you’re still a cop. Do you even really care?” Thomas grits his jaw, unable to come up with a half-decent lie. “There’s no reason-”

King stops, Thomas hears the slight gasp over the phone, and then King starts talking again. “You care. You actually _care!_ Oh Thomas, my boy. You care so _so_ much, don’t you?” Thomas feels his heart drop. “I’m so glad you called then. I was worried Alexander here wouldn’t give us anything. But…” Thomas hears shuffling, then, “You’re on speaker love!”

Thomas bites down on his lip, tasting blood. The silence is heavy, Thomas leaning his forehead onto the door. “Oh come on, someone say _something_ ,” King whines. “Sam? Make Alex talk.”

Seabury’s definition of ‘talk’ apparently includes screams, if the sounds Alexander makes are any indication. A second later, Alexander bites down on the noise, and it turns into a growl. Thomas has a hand pressed to his mouth, he doesn’t dare speak. He can’t risk what might come out of his mouth.

“Not really a word, but eh,” King says. “Your turn Thomas.”

“I assume you’ve taught him about Ling Chi?” Is what Thomas goes with after a split second’s deliberation.

“Thomas?” Alexander runs over whatever King was about to say. “Hang up! Hang up now! Call John, tell-”

“That’s enough of that,” King says, and Thomas hears more shuffling. “Off speaker, just you and me. How have you been?”

“What do you want King?” Thomas hisses.

“Straight to the point, huh?” King chuckles. “Well, I was just hoping to make Alex spill, but I if I’m honest, I didn’t have high hopes. But you! Oh, you and your little _feelings_ -” Thomas winces “-you know what Alexander’s in for. You can stop it, though. Just tell me where Burr is.”

“...I don’t know what you’re talking about ‘feelings,’” Thomas mutters. “You can’t manipulate me.” But Thomas can feel his fingers burn, the crown on his ribs tingles. He hears King sigh.

“Are you really willing to subject Alexander to your same treatment to hide a thief and a liar?”

And just like that, rage begins to rise in Thomas. His blood churns and red starts to tinge his vision. “You know what King?” Thomas says lowly. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Thomas tears his phone away from his head, jamming his finger against the ‘end call’ button.

Dimly, Thomas realizes that hanging up on King with a threat wasn’t the best choice, but he doesn’t have the time to worry about that. He’s shaking as he tears through his contacts, looking for John Lauren’s number. He growls at the screen when he finds that he doesn’t have it. But he has Lafayette’s, and he slams the call button.

It rings three nerve-wracking times before Lafayette’s annoyed voice comes through. “This better be important, I was almost asleep.”

“Send me Laurens’ number,” Thomas demands. Lafayette pauses on the other end.

“Why-”

“Do not question me tonight. Send me the damn number.”

“ _Merde,_ fine.” Lafayette’s voice grows farther away. “Why do you need this so bad?”

“Alexander’s-”

It’s Lafayette’s turn to interrupt. “Oh.” The single syllable is full of disdain and disappointment. “If Alexander isn’t picking up your calls, perhaps it’s for a reason.”

“No, you don’t…” Thomas’ phone buzzes in his hand and it’s Lafayette’s text with Laurens’ number. “Look, tell you later. Thanks Laf,”

“Wait!” But Thomas has already hung up and is punching in Laurens’ number. The phone rings once, twice, three times and Thomas feels ready to throw his fist through the bathroom wall.

“Jefferson?” Laurens sounds groggy, half-asleep. “Why the fuck are you calling me at ass-o'clock in the morning?”

Suddenly Thomas realizes he doesn’t know what he’s doing. _Call John,_ Alexander has said, _tell him… tell him what?_ “When’s the last time you saw Alexander?” Thomas asks.

“Uhhh, what?”

Thomas wants to scream, throw the phone, reach through the line and strangle John Laurens, _anything_. He feels time slipping away. “ _When did you last see Alexander?_ ”

“Um… before work? 6ish?”

“Where were you?”

“Bar across town, what’s the big deal? I thought you didn’t care.” Laurens seems to be gaining awareness, if the clarity of his voice is any indicator.

“That doesn’t….!” Thomas snarls. “Look, do you have _any idea-_ no you wouldn’t. _Fuck!_ ” Thomas leans over the sink counter, trying to think.

“What’s going on?” Laurens asks, though Thomas’ mind is a thousand miles away, spinning it’s wheels. Thomas can feel the anger in his chest starting to give way to panic. _No, focus Thomas. Alexander needs you._ What does he know? What can he use?

Thomas starts. _The picture_. It’s a long shot, Alexander might not have gone home with the red woman, but it’s a starting place. “Laurens, I’m sending you a picture.” Thomas pulls his phone away from his face long enough to copy Alexander’s late-night selfie and send it off to Laurens. “Do you know who the woman is?”

“Uhh, lemme see.” Thomas can hear the phone move, hears Laurens pressing a few buttons, then the man on the other end gasps.

“Oh god. Alex, why would you fucking…” Laurens breathes, trailing off. Thomas’ breath catches.

“Do you know who she is?” He asks again, insistent.

“That’s Maria Reynolds, James-”

“Reynolds’ wife,” Thomas finishes, heart sinking. “Alexander told me about her.”

“Then you know she’s bad news. Jefferson, what’s going on?”

“Do you have any idea where she lives?” Thomas asks by way of answer. _Maybe she knows where they’ve taken him,_ Thomas thinks. _Maybe I can get her to spill_.

“Nah, probably wherever Reynolds lives. Maybe even where he keeps the rest of his girls.”

“His girls?” Thomas asks. “He’s a pimp?”

“Yeah, it’s how he met her.”

“Holy shit, thank you Laurens,” Thomas breathes. “Call you later.”

“Hold on, wha-” Thomas hangs up the phone, already throwing the bathroom door open. He can’t sit still any longer. A second later, he regrets his decision as he has to catch it from slamming into the wall. He’d nearly forgotten James was even there.

His friend’s sleeping form shifts slightly as Thomas holds his breath. When James settles again, Thomas’ eyes sweep over the room. _What do I need?_ He asks. Actual clothes, for one. His gun- in the nightstand, _shit_ \- and his glasses. At least his glasses are just on the countertop behind him.

Slowly, moving as silently as possible, Thomas crosses to the chest of drawers and slides the top one open. He grabs the first shirt and moves on to the next drawer. Thomas can hear his heart pounding in his ears, certain James can hear it too and will awaken any second. Thomas collects enough clothing and creeps back to his own bed.

The nightstand drawer slides open with the sound of wood scraping against wood and Thomas winces. He tries to peer into the drawer, but it’s far too dark and his eyes still haven’t adjusted from his phone screen. Thomas puts a hand inside and slowly roots around until his fingers close on what he knows to be the muzzle of his pistol. A moment later and his ammo clip is in his hand.

On the way out, the floor creaks beneath Thomas’ feet, but James doesn’t even stir. Not for the first time in his life, Thomas is beyond grateful James is such a heavy sleeper. Thomas opens the door, slips out into the hallway and shuts the door quietly behind himself. The stairs creak and groan as Thomas picks his way down them. His ears are pricked for the sound of people waking up, but the landing behind him is silent.

Thomas hits the downstairs floor and drops his bundle of clothing on the table, flicking on the light. He rushes into the kitchen, grabbing a few protein bars and tearing one open. He’s going to need the energy he knows. He eats the first one as he starts to change, still trying to stay as quiet as possible. His arms still complain as he pulls his shirt off, over his head and lifts the new one up and-

“Thomas?”

Thomas freezes, before remembering his shirt still isn’t all the way on and his bandages are completely on display. Thomas pulls the shirt on and spins, finding Louis halfway down the stairs. The rush of relief that it’s not James is soon overcome with the panic that _someone caught him_.

“Keep your voice down,” Thomas breathes back. Louis’ eyes are wide as he looks down at Thomas.

“What happened to you?” Louis asks, thankfully matching Thomas’ volume.

“What do you mean?” Thomas asks, hoping.

“You’re covered in bandages!” Louis replies, coming further down the stairs. Thomas hides the wince.

“I… I uh,” he stutters. “I fell on some broken glass?” Thomas knows how pathetic the lie is. Louis frowns, hitting the bottom of the stairs.

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Louis asks, face full of concern. “And what the hell are you doing up?”

Thomas fidgets, glancing at the clock. The longer he’s stalled the longer Alexander’s alone with those monsters. He doesn’t have time to come up with a lie. “Look, Louis, I’ll make you a deal.” Thomas gathers his things in his arms. “I have to go, and I’ll probably be gone for a bit. If you go back to bed and don’t say anything about me leaving or my injuries, I’ll tell you everything when I come back.”

Louis crosses his arms. “I think you should tell me now.”

Thomas glances at the clock again. _You’re wasting time, get the hell out of here._ “I don’t have time, people are in danger.”

“Then we really should wake everyone else up!” Louis points up to the second floor. Thomas shakes his head vigorously.

“No, just go back to bed. Don’t say a damn word.” Louis still looks hesitant, so Thomas adds: “That’s an order from your assignment leader.”

Louis blinks, his arms come down slowly to rest by his sides. “An order?” He repeats, almost like he doesn’t believe it. Thomas grits his jaw and nods.

“An order you better follow.” Something sparks in Louis’ eyes at Thomas’ words, and Louis slowly nods.

“You got it chief,” he says, stepping backwards and towards the stairs. “Not a word.”

“Thank you Louis. I’ll see you.” Thomas turns to go, feeling Louis’ eyes on his back. As he leaves the condo, Thomas lets out a sigh. _I can come up with some lie by the time I get back, surely._

Thomas takes off down the street, desperately trying to remember how to get to Abigail's.

\-----------

_Running in severely damaged feet should hurt more,_ the logical part of Thomas’ brain says.

_Shut up and be grateful the adrenaline is dulling it,_ the part of Thomas’ brain still in panic mode says.

_Fair enough,_ replies the logical part as Thomas skids to a stop in front of Abigail’s building. He leaps up the small staircase and slams his hand on Abigail's apartment call. He jams it repeatedly, breathing hard. A second before he starts running his hand across all the calls he hears the buzzing of the door unlocking and Thomas throws it open.

He bounds up the stairs, his feet only middling complaining. He hears one of them start to squish as he moves, and he dimly realizes he must be bleeding again. Thomas makes it to Abigail’s landing, rushes to her door and pushes it open himself.

Abigail lurches back from the door, dressed in nothing but a fuzzy nightgown and slippers. “Agent?” She breathes. “What’s going on-”

“Where’s Theodosia?” Thomas asks, glancing wildly around the apartment. The door swings shut behind him, though Thomas pays it little attention.

“Asleep, it’s two in the morning!” Abigail hisses. Thomas looks at her, his expression pleading.

“Get her up,” he demands. “I _need_ to talk to her. _Now_.” Abigail recoils, even just slightly, but nods. Thomas watches her disappear down a hallway, nerves jumping. He starts to pace, panicked energy needing somewhere to go. It feels like hours before Abigail reappears, a bleary Theodosia in tow.

“Agent Jefferson?” She asks, voice still heavy with sleep. She rubs at her eyes and a yawn stretches across her face.

“Maria Reynolds,” Thomas barks. “Tell me everything you know.”

Theodosia blinks at him. “What?”

“ _Maria Reynolds,_ ” Thomas repeats. “I need to know where she lives, where she works, _everything._ ”

Theodosia’s expression turns quizzical. “Why are you asking about _Maria_?”

Time is still ticking away. Thomas crosses the room to Theodosia in three long strides. “Look,” He grabs her by the shoulders, and she flinches under his touch. Thomas doesn’t care. “Alexander is in _danger_ , okay? Maria was the last person I know was with him and _I need to know where she is_.”

Theodosia’s eyes are wide like moons, fear flickers deep in her face but Thomas still holds on. “S-she, uh, um,” Theodosia stutters, voice very small. “She lives in Hell’s Kitchen, with Reynolds’ other girls.”

“ _Where,_ ” Thomas demands, “I need an address.” There are tears welling in Theodosia’s eyes, she's shrinking underneath his hands.

“I- I’m sorry! I-”

“Thomas Jefferson, let her go,” Abigail breaks in, grabbing Thomas' arm. One of her hands lands on the flayed part of his skin and he flinches. Abigail’s grip only tightens.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Burr appears in the hallway opening. In a moment, every ounce of sleep disappears from him as he rushes forward. He grabs Thomas' wrist and presses on the rope burns hard enough to make Thomas let go of Theodosia.

“Get off of her,” Burr commands, putting himself between Thomas and Theodosia, shoving Thomas on the chest. Thomas staggers back, his arm coming out of Abigail’s grip. Burr glares at Thomas, Theodosia cowering behind him.

“Good lord, Jefferson,” Abigail hisses, shuffling over to the openly crying Theodosia. The older woman starts to murmur quietly with the distraught woman, pointedly keeping her hands to herself. Thomas finds himself breathing heavily while Burr looks at him with murder in his eyes.

“What do you think you're doing?” Burr spits. Thomas glances around, suddenly unable to meet Burr’s eyes.

“I need to know where Maria Reynolds is,” Thomas explains. Burr’s eyes widen even further.

“ _That's all?_ ” Burr’s voice drips with rage. “You could have asked without scaring her! You could have asked _me_.”

“I don’t-” Thomas looks at the grandfather clock sitting in the corner of the room. “I don't have time to play games Burr.”

“You have time to terrify the person I love though!”

“Mine’s getting his fingernails ripped out as we speak!” Thomas spits back.

“What?” Burr’s fists clench and unclench. Abigail looks around Burr and up at Thomas.

“You said Alexander was in danger,” she says. Burr glances down at her, then back up at Thomas with wide eyes.

“He is,” Thomas admits. “Please, just tell me where Maria is.” Burr’s eyebrows narrow.

“So Alexander and Madison are both in danger?” He asks.

“What? No,” Thomas breathes. He looks between Burr and Abigail pleadingly. “James is safe, I don’t have time for this.” He backs up. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll figure it out somehow.”

“Wait,” Abigail stands, leaving Theodosia on the floor. The younger woman reaches for Burr’s hand, who takes it and squeezes. “Alexander came by looking for Maria too, he said you and Madison were...”

Understanding dawns on Thomas. “Oh no, god no. I… I lied to him,” he admits. “I can't…. he can't know.”

“Know what?” Abigail asks, though the expression on her face is far from confused or unknowing. Thomas swallows thickly.

“Don't make me say it,” Thomas begs. “Don't because it's not fair and nothing can ever happen. Just please, tell me what I need to know.” All three sets of eyes are on him: Theodosia’s wide, Burr’s shocked and Abigail’s knowingly sympathetic.

“But you have admitted it to yourself. That you love him?” She presses. Thomas’ body finally stills, his eyes fall to the floor.

“Yes,” he mutters, as quietly as possible. He hears Abigail shuffle forwards. She takes his hand in hers and holds out his arm.

“Finally, you silly man.” Thomas feels something press onto his skin, and he looks up to find Abigail writing on his arm in marker. “There,” she says, blowing on the silver lettering. “Maria Reynolds’ address.” She lets go of his hand and Thomas looks at the careful, looping handwriting on the inside of his arm.

“Thank you,” Thomas breathes. He backpedals to the door, running his eyes over and over the address. He's also reaching for his phone, ready to pull up a map.

“Good luck Agent Jefferson,” Abigail says. “Go get your boy.”

Thomas nods, running out into the hallway and down the stairs as fast as he can. He’s typing in the address into google as he moves, doing his best not to fall down the staircase. When he breaks out into the cool morning air, he's already got directions and Thomas starts down the street.

Thomas throws his hand in the air, hoping a taxi will pass by soon because, if the map is to be believed, Thomas can't run the whole way. Well, he _could_ , he has the endurance, but it would take him far too long. He's a distance runner, not a sprinter after all.

Thomas runs two blocks before a taxi pulls up beside him. “Where’s the fire?” The driver asks as Thomas throws open the door, breathing hard.

“The faster you drive, the more money you get.” Thomas rattles off the address, and the driver hums knowingly. The sound is far too amused for Thomas’ current mood, but he lets it go. He just watches the clock as the taxi speeds down street after street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know, it's short. But I'm running out of backlog and I haven't had much time to write for the past month or so.
> 
> Anyway, we're less than 100 away from 1,000 kudos and that's mind boggling to me. Thank you so much everyone! I love and appreciate you all!
> 
> See you Friday


	34. And That's When Mr. Thomas Jefferson Walked Into Her Life. He Said "Help Me Rescue My Almost Boyfriend Or Shut The Hell Up."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Maria Reynolds makes her grand debut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Implied underage prostitution, sex work in general, implied abuse, implied forced marriage, branding, and all that fun Reynolds stuff.

“Fare is-”

Thomas doesn’t even listen to his total, just throws a fifty at the driver and jumps out of the car. He slams the door behind him and takes off down the block. He made the driver let him out a street away. The ride over took just under twenty-five minutes, and Thomas had spent those minutes trying to think of anything but what Alexander had to be going through while he rode, safe and sound, in a damn taxi that smelled like cigarettes and sex.

Thomas has to fight down the urge to sprint down the sidewalk. Showing up disheveled might arouse suspicion, and he needs to just _talk_ to Maria Reynolds. Thomas scans the condos as he passes them, looking for the right house number. The silver marker on his arm shines under the streetlights, and he double checks each number against the careful writing.

When Thomas finds the right one, he stops dead in his tracks. Looking up at the building, it looks no different from its neighbors. Made of brick, slightly dilapidated with a wrought-iron fire escape trailing down the front. _This is where the bastard lives, huh?_ Thomas thinks. He steels himself, then marches up the two front steps to the thin door.

There’s no callboard, no doorbell, so Thomas just knocks instead. Any worry that he won’t be let in is dispelled as the door swings open almost immediately. A tall, curvaceous woman leans against the doorframe as the door opens in Thomas’ direction. The low-cut dress she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, but a slinky red sweater gives the illusion of modesty.

“How may I help a fine gentleman tonight?” She purrs, sultry smile on her lips. The thick French accent takes Thomas aback, but his mouth is already working.

“I’d like to speak to Maria Reynolds,” he says. The woman blinks, settles further against the door and crosses her arms.

“Is there a problem?” She asks, all hints of flirtatiousness gone. “ _Monsieur_ Reynolds handles all the debts, but he is out right now.”

Relief floods Thomas’ veins, but he keeps his face neutral. “No, nothing about money,” he says. The gears in his head are spinning, trying to think something up to get him inside the door.

“Then what is the issue?” The woman asks, frowning. “Is it one of the girls?”

 _One of the girls…_ “Yes!” Thomas seizes upon the idea. “I have information about one them, I was told to bring it here.”

“About who?” The woman asks.

“Theodosia,” Thomas says. Instantly, the woman’s whole demeanor changes. She stands up straight and pushes the door open further.

“In,” she commands, and Thomas is more than willing to oblige. The woman glances up and down the street before forcefully closing the door. She turns back to Thomas, her expression deadly serious. “Follow me.”

The woman starts past Thomas and across a short room. She bounds up a set of stairs and Thomas follows, wincing with each step. His guide, skirt gathered in one hand, takes the steps two at a time despite the four inch heels. Thomas looks up to be greeted by a multitude of curious faces, not all of them feminine. Most of them have face-fulls of makeup, and are wearing even less than the woman now waiting at the top of the landing for Thomas.

The woman points to one of the men. “Watch the door until I get back,” she commands. He nods, reaching back into a room and grabbing a shirt. He eyes Thomas as they pass on the stairs, but Thomas’ gaze is drawn to the crown etched into his skin on his collarbone. When Thomas draws even to the French doorkeeper, he sees a similar crown on her own collarbone, but on the opposite side. Thomas doesn’t need to look around to know that all of the others have crowns on their chests too. Thomas’ own brand tingles under his shirt, he fights the urge to rub at it.

The woman starts up another set of stairs and Thomas tries to ignore how young a girl sitting on the bottom step looks. He can still feel a dozen pairs of eyes on his back, and there are more awaiting Thomas on the next landing. The woman leads Thomas past a older woman diligently sweeping in a hallway, one who glares at Thomas silently. She’s missing a finger on one hand, and her crown looks to be much deeper set than any of the others.

Thomas’ skin crawls with the quiet mutterings rising behind him. “We do not usually bring Johns up the stairs,” the woman explains, stopping at the farthest door. “You are going to be the subject of gossip for months.”

“Good to know?” Thomas glances behind him, sees curious pairs of eyes dive back into the safety of darkened rooms. His guide knocks softly on the door.

“Maria?” She calls. “May I come in?” There’s a muffled response, and the woman slips behind the door. She motions for Thomas to stay put however, and he obligingly waits. “A man says he has information on Theo.” Again, a quiet response, and then the woman reappears.  “You can come in,” she says. The woman leans away from the door and Thomas crosses the threshold.

Inside is a woman, dressed in dark red, sitting at a brightly-lit vanity. Long black hair frames a gaunt face and piercing dark eyes. Thomas has caught her in the process of applying eyeliner, only her right eye is fully done up. She peers at Thomas in the mirror, carefully drawing on her left wing. With an expert twitch of her fingers, the woman fills in the dark triangle and puts down the brush.

“You know something about Theodosia?” She asks, examining her work in the oval mirror. Thomas nods, meeting her reflected gaze. Thomas recognizes her, knows those plump red lips from the late-night photograph.

Maria Reynolds turns on her stool, eyeing Thomas with a searching gaze. “Shut the door on your way out Adrienne. Make sure we are not disturbed.” she commands. Thomas guide- Adrienne- nods, slipping out and shutting the door quietly. Silence settles, and Maria lets it stretch. Thomas has to hold himself back from launching into questions and demands. He has to do this right, there’s no other way he can find Alexander.

Thomas glances around the room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a bed on one side and a desk on the other. The bed looks well-used, but not as though people actually _sleep_ in it. Thomas averts his gaze, doesn’t want to think about the men that have been in and out of those sheets. There’s no other doors, no windows. The only exit is at Thomas’ back.

“How is she?” Maria breaks the silence, and Thomas jumps. Maria looks at him, obvious concern shining in her eyes. “ _Where_ is she?”

Thomas straightens, looking down at the woman in front of him. “Where’s Alexander Hamilton?” He asks. Maria’s eyes widen, then her expression darkens.

“Where’s Theodosia Prevost?” She replies. “Or do you actually know?”

“I do, but you won’t find her,” Thomas hisses. “She’s safe, unlike Alexander.”

Maria inhales sharply. “But she is safe.” She presses. Thomas blinks.

“Of course,” he replies. He takes a breath to try and press her again, but Maria is already speaking.

“And Teddy? She’s okay too, right?”

“Yeah, Teddy’s fine.” Thomas looks at Maria with no little amount of confusion. Maria lets out a deep sigh, shoulders dropping.

“Thank god,” she breathes. Thomas feels his eyebrows creep up his forehead. Maria looks up at him. “You promise me they’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Thomas admits. “Promise.”

Maria nods to herself. “Good, good.” She turns back to the mirror. “If they’re safe, don’t tell me where they are, I don’t want to know.”

“What?” Thomas asks.                                                                           

“I don’t want to know,” she insists, reaching for a small spray bottle.

“You _don’t_ want to know?” Thomas asks incredulously. Maria nods.

“If they’re out, I don’t want to risk James dragging them back. Or worse.” She uncaps the bottle and sprays two quick little spurts of some liquid on her face. She catches Thomas’ bewildered expression in the mirror. She cocks an eyebrow, questioning.

“I’m sorry, I assumed you would…” he trails. A small smile appears on Maria’s face, bittersweet and gentle.

“Mr. Clark, I am not my husband.”

Thomas starts, jaw dropping slightly. “You know who I am?”

Maria giggles, an empty light sound. “Everyone knows Will Clark. You shot seven of James’ friends and survived a day with Samuel.” Thomas flinches, his eye twitches in the mirror.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Thomas mutters. Maria shrugs.

“You shot, and in the eyes of my husband, it doesn’t matter if your bullets hit them or Alex’s did.” Maria finishes her inspection of her face and stands from the counter. She looks at Thomas, dead in the eye and says: “Thank you for caring for Theo and Teddy. I was so scared neither of them would make it. Theo was so frail after the birth, and Teddy’s just a child.”

“Theodosia’s getting stronger,” Thomas admits. Maria’s face lights up.

“Oh good,” she says. “I couldn’t get her to gain any weight. Aaron’s treating them well?”

“He loves them both greatly.” Thomas fidgets. “About Alex-”

“When Theo told me he was the father, I was so concerned. I didn’t think he was the fathering type. Especially since Theo worked…” Maria crosses to the desk, shuffles some papers around. “I figured he was going to leave them.”

“No, he’s great. Especially with Teddy. But I-”

“I did so much to hide the pregnancy from James, you know. If Aaron had left those poor girls-”

“Mrs. Reynolds, I need to know-”

“-I don’t know what would have happened.” Maria talks louder, over Thomas’ words. “When Aaron agreed to get her out, I-”

“Where’s Alexander?!” Thomas interrupts. Maria visibly stiffens.

“...I was hoping he’d get them all on a train out of town, but-”

“Stop fucking stalling and tell me where he is!” Thomas snaps. Maria clenches her jaw, clutching a paper in her hands.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” she mutters. “I haven’t even seen him.”

“Bullshit,” Thomas says. “You saw him earlier tonight.” He digs his phone from his pocket and pulls up the photo. He holds out the screen. When Maria doesn’t move, he clears his throat and she flinches. She looks over her shoulder, eyes lighting on the picture.

“I didn’t know he took that,” she breathes. Thomas frown sets deeper.

“He did, and him sending it to me is the last contact he made with anyone.” Thomas glares over his hand at Maria. “I don’t have time for you to play games.”

“Whether I play games or not, nothing changes.” She looks back down at the papers in her grip. “Sam, James and King have him. It doesn’t matter if you know where or not.”

“If I know where he is, I can go get him,” Thomas counters. Maria breathes a laugh.

“You and what army?” She finally turns back around, letting the papers fall onto the desk. “You came alone, Adrienne wouldn’t have opened the door if there was anyone else with you. And I know Alex’s friends, they’d be shooting this place up to find him. You can’t ‘rescue’ him by yourself, that’s _suicide_.”

“ _I’ll_ decide what I can and can’t do.” Thomas’ fists ball.

“What if I called my husband, told him you were coming?” Maria challenges. Thomas snorts.

“They already know.”

Maria’s eyes widen. “Then you’ve given up your only advantage. No one man can take on a warehouse alone, especially if they _know_ you’re coming.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, just tell me where they’ve taken him.”

“I’m not going to let you go kill yourself,” Maria counters.

“Well what am I supposed to do?” Thomas spits. “Sit back and let them kill him?”

“Better him than both of you.” Maria approaches Thomas, taking his hands in hers. “Look, there’s nothing you can do-”

“I can try,” Thomas interrupts. Maria shakes her head.

“There’s no point trying when you know how it’ll end. It’s better to live with regrets than get yourself killed doing something stupid.”

Thomas’ eyes widen. “Is that why you betrayed him?” He asks. “He went to you looking for comfort and you handed him over to people you _knew_ would hurt him. _Kill_ him.”

Maria winces, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t want to, but James knew he was with me. If I hadn’t given him up…” she trails.

“That doesn’t change what you did.” Thomas tears his hands from Maria’s. “Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t want two people’s blood on my hands tonight,” she mutters.

“But you’re okay with one.”

“Alex… you can’t help him. He’s gone, let him go.” Maria looks down at the floor. “Neither of us can be helped.”

 _Neither…_ the word strikes a chord in Thomas. “You could help him,” Thomas says. “Tell me where he is, _help_ me figure out a way to get him out. You have to know something that can help.”

Maria looks up at him sharply, eyes wide. “What do you even care? You broke his heart, and now you’re rushing into your death to help him.”

“Sometimes you can’t tell people how you’re feeling,” Thomas admits. “You of all people should know that.”

Maria flinches, a hand coming up to hold the side of her neck. “There’s nothing I can do,” she repeats, though her voice is softer this time.

“Yes there is,” Thomas replies, his voice just as soft. “Come with me.” Maria’s eyes widen even further. “Help me break him out. Then I can take you where Theodosia is and away from all this.” Thomas motions around the dingy room.

Maria hesitates, lips in a thin line. “If I go, who’ll protect the others?” She asks. “What about Adrienne and Molly and Nate-”

“Didn’t you say it yourself- better them than all of you?”

“But if I stay no one will be hurt,” Maria counters. Thomas sighs.

“Now, that’s not true, is it?”

Maria shuts her eyes tight, and Thomas thinks she’s actually considering it. Then she shakes her head. “I can’t leave Mr. Clark.”

“Then come back after Alexander is safe. Keep your head down and no one has to know you helped me. Please,” Thomas pleads. “For Alexander.” Silence falls, Thomas pleading expression turned on Maria, who looks at the wall above Thomas’ head. “I helped Theo,” Thomas reminds her. “I helped Theodosia and Teddy and now a friend of mine is dead because of it. Alexander is still alive and _you can help save him_.”

It’s not fair, Thomas know, guilt tripping this poor girl, but Thomas is desperate. He has no other leads. He knows it, Maria knows it. Thomas can hear his heart in his ears, pounding louder as she opens his mouth.

“The Lincoln warehouse,” she mutters. “That’s where he’ll be.”

Thomas lets out a sigh of relief. “Do you know the address?” Maria shakes her head, and Thomas’ heart sinks.

“No, not off the top of my head.” She looks up, the regret already painted across her face. “But I’ll take you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you don't follow me on tumblr (you totally should and also talk to me), I've gone and given myself Carpal Tunnel Syndrome in my left arm. Just in time to run out of backlog and for finals too! *sarcastic cheer*
> 
> It honestly really fucking hurts so if updates gets skipped or slow, that's why. I'm technically not supposed to be writing for a few days (whoops) but I have too much to do. I'm going to try and keep up, but chapters might end up being shorter than usual while I recover/get used to this/chop off my arm/whatever.
> 
> Thanks for understanding!
> 
> (And yeah, that's Adrianne de Lafayette, Laf's real life wife.)
> 
> See you Friday!
> 
> (hopefully)


	35. The Shortest Chapter In This Fic Contains A "Cotton Eyed Joe" Reference Because I Only Have So Much Self Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it okay to have a sex worker make a joke about a song that's about an STD?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Implied Abuse

Maria leads Thomas out of the brothel silently, giving Adrienne quiet orders to watch the place. Thomas feels the worker’s eyes on him as they leave, stairs creaking underfoot. Maria grabs red jacket with a hood, slides it on and pushes the door open. Adrienne holds it open for Thomas, her expression reading: _You better bring her back_.

Thomas wonders just how much Maria does for these people.

The walk starts out silent, Maria drawing her hood up and holding her jacket closed. The tiniest hint of twilight colors the morning sky, though the streetlights are still brightly lit. Maria’s strides are short but determined, as if she’s trying to get to their destination before she can change her mind. Thomas wants to grab her by the wrist and pull her along faster, but he knows Maria’s calling the shots. He won’t get anywhere without her.

“Thank you,” he says, voice barely above a mutter. Maria sighs, pulling her jacket closer.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she replies. Her heels click on the sidewalk, bright red stilettos that Thomas is more than impressed she can walk in, let alone with the purpose she’s making her way down the street with.

“Can you swim?” Maria asks.

“Uh, yeah.” Thomas glances around, but they’re nowhere near water. “Why?”

“It changes which route we want to take.” She explains. “I’m trying to figure out how to get you in without getting caught.”

“Get me in?” Thomas asks. “In where? It’s just a warehouse, right?”

Maria shakes her head. “King owns a whole complex around the building. The warehouse itself will be the easy part- there’s a backdoor no one ever uses. It’s getting you through the surrounding area that’s going to be the issue. And since they know you’re coming, they’re going to be on the lookout.”

Thomas’ eyebrows furrow. “So I’m going to _swim_ my way in?”

Maria nods. “The whole thing is an old marina right on the Hudson.”

“...Your plan is a swim in the _Hudson_?” Thomas asks. Maria looks up at him with a sheepish smile.

“Just a small swim,” she replies. “Just from one pier to the next. You’ll stay right next to the shore.”

“But the Hudson,” Thomas complains, looking at her with raised eyebrows. Maria sighs.

“Do you want to get to Alex in once piece?”

“Obviously.”

“Then you’re swimming in the Hudson.” Maria searches the pockets of her jacket, eventually pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Want one?” She offers, holing the box out to Thomas. Thomas shakes his head and she shrugs, pulling one out for herself.

As she lights it, Thomas realizes she looks like the cliche hooker you see on tv and in movies. He’s sure that underneath under the caked on makeup are eye bags and maybe even bruises. He can just barely see the splotches where the foundation is heaver. Maria takes a drag and lets the smoke float into the night sky.

“They seem to like you pretty well back there,” Thomas observes. “Despite you being the pimp’s wife.”

Maria makes a face at the word ‘pimp,’ but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she says: “I’m still one of them, just more… exclusive. I don’t even get paid anymore.” If that’s supposed to be a joke, Thomas doesn’t laugh. Maria just sighs. “I do my best to take care of them. They come and go so fast most of the time… but the ones that stick around call me Momma Reynolds.”

“Where do they come from?” Thomas asks. “And where do they go?”

“ _Where do you come from Cotton-Eyed Joe?_ ” Maria sings around her cigarette, laughing quietly. Thomas rolls his eyes, but something in him is surprised at how easy Maria laughs.

“Seriously,” he says. Maria quiets, breathing little puffs before she speaks again.

“I have no idea. All over, according to James.”

“And you?” Thomas asks, watching her smoke-filled breath dissipate into the night.

“Right here in Hell’s Kitchen,” she says. “Coupla blocks that way.” She points to Thomas’ left, and Thomas glances though there’s nothing to be seen. “Just got wrapped up in the wrong people.”

Thomas offers what he thinks is a sympathetic look, but Maria waves it away with her cigarette perched between two fingers. “My fault, Mr. Clark. Made a few bad choices. Quite a few, actually. Can’t stop making them, it seems.” Her free hand plays along her neck, her sleeve falling down to her elbow and Thomas sees confirmation for what he thought.

“I can still get you out,” he offers again, but he knows she’ll reject him before she even shakes her head.

“I still say no.” Maria tugs her sleeve down to cover the ring of bruises. “Which, again, may not be the best choice.”

“So why not choose otherwise?”

“Because there’s no choice for me, not anymore,” she says, and Thomas gets the feeling she’s not just talking about staying with Reynolds. Before he can make up his mind to press her further, she turns at an intersection. “Down here, we’re almost at the pier.”

Thomas follows along silently, peering down the street in the pre-dawn, trying to spot the water from a distance. He can just see it, dark waters churning away as the water rushes past them in the opposite direction they walked.  
“And you’re sure it’s safe to swim?” Thomas asks. Maria shrugs.

“If you get sick, you won’t feel it until after you rescue Alex,” she explains. “Your other outcome is that you’re dead before you get sick.”

“I am surprisingly okay with either option,” Thomas admits. Maria laughs through a mouthful of smoke.

“You better be,” she replies. She leads him out onto an empty dock, just past a group of storing garages. Thomas looks down at the frothing water under his feet. It’s moving far too fast for Thomas to think jumping in is a safe idea, but if it’s how he gets to Alexander, so be it.

“Where am I going?” He asks, peeling his shirt off. Clothes will weigh him down. As he takes it off his arms, he gets a look at his bandaging attempt from yesterday. Most of it has slipped from place, but in general it’s less bloodstained than Thomas thought it would be. Maria must see it, but she doesn’t mention it. She knows.

“Two docks down,” she says instead. Thomas follows her pointing finger as he reaches for his belt. “Not the first one, not the second, the _third one,_ got it?”

“Third one, yeah,” he repeats, sliding his pants off. He tries to see what the dock looks like, tries to pick out any distinguishing features on the shoreline. It’s far too dark, but he does think that there’s a little outcropping of rock by the dock he wants to hit.

“I’ll meet you there,” Maria says, and Thomas stops, jeans halfway off his ankles.

“I thought I was going in alone.” They look at each other in the dark, neither of them embarrassed or shy at Thomas’ half-naked state. He is another body for Maria, and Thomas is too busy formulating a plan on how to survive this little skip in the Hudson.

“Well,” she begins, “you’re going to need someone to pull you out of the water for starters. It’s not exactly a beach down there. Then you’ll need someone to find and take you to Alex. You can’t just do it all alone.”

Thomas blinks up at her, taken aback by her words, what she’s offering to do for him. “Thank you,” he says, quietly. Maria smiles.

“Don’t thank me yet. I still expect both of us to die before the night’s through.” She says it with such levity as if she’s resigned to a fate that hasn’t even occurred yet. _She’s probably expected to die for a very long time,_ Thomas realizes.

“Why help me then?” He asks.

“You seem like a good enough man, Mr. Clark,” she says. She slowly picks up Thomas’ shirt from where it lies on the dock. “And even if you aren’t, you’re most certainly in love. I can understand that.” She looks out at the water, glances at the early peaks of the sun over the horizon. “We better get going.”

Thomas nods, sheds his shoes and socks, and pads down to the edge of the dock. The wood is cold underneath him as he sits on the edge, feet dangling just above the water. Waves lick at his toes- one of which is slightly bleeding- and Thomas braces himself for what he’s sure will be ice water.

“Wait,” Maria says. Thomas stiffens, worried that she’s changed her mind. “I just… in case we don’t get a chance to talk again, there’s something you ought to know.”

“Hmm?” Thomas hums, watching the waves. The city lights reflect on the choppy water, creating fleeting images that swirl and dance with color.

“I heard James and Sam talking about an undercover cop in the Sons. They think the feds have a guy in your side,” Maria explains. Thomas bites his lip to keep from smiling. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“Why tell me?” He asks. “Wouldn’t it be better for your husband for us not to know?”

Maria sighs. “Like I said, you seem like an alright guy. I’d hate to see you carted off to jail if something goes south.”

Thomas can’t help the little breath of laughter that escapes him. He looks over his shoulder at the woman standing behind him. Maria has folded his clothes into a little bundle that she clutches tightly to her chest. With a little smirk, Thomas replies:

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I think I’ll be just fine if something happens.” He waits, just a split second to see if the implication lands. Maria’s head tilts, but then her eyes light up in understanding. _Smart girl,_ Thomas thinks. She opens her mouth to reply, but Thomas doesn’t give her the opportunity.

He swivels his head around, pushes hard on the dock, and launches himself into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all I have to take it slow while my wrist heals. I've taken to splitting chapters roughly in half/thirds, so as to make sure I have something each week for you. I know this is exceedingly short and not much happened but oh well. I've got finals and essays and I have to prioritize my writing time. Thanks for understanding!
> 
> Anyway we hit 1000 kudos and I'm???? Thanks so much to everyone!
> 
> See you Friday


	36. Gratuitous Rebirth Imagery Because Sometimes I Can't Stop Myself From Being Pretentious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I imply Hudson River water is basically placenta.

Thomas hits the water hard. Almost instantly, the ice in the waves chills him right to the bone and he reflexively gasps. Salty water rushes into his mouth, his throat, his lungs as more of it pulls him along the current.

Within moments, the current has him spinning head over heels and he’s lost which way is up. It feels like his entire chest is on fire, he needs air. He needs to breathe, needs to expel the nasty, thick water from his lungs.

Thomas’ limbs flail in the murky water around him, trying to find some control searching for a hint of the surface. His loose hair does him no favors, battering his face and disorienting him more.

Then- in the greatest miracle that’s ever happened to him- one of his hands hits warm air and Thomas suddenly has a reference point. He instantly reaches for the surface, clawing his way up until his face breaks into air.

Thomas gulps in air, sputtering out water as he blinks his eyes open and focuses around him. The Hudson River’s current is nothing to laugh at, the dock he and Maria were on is already a good distance away, the woman herself a faint red smudge against the dark city background. As he coughs the dregs of New York city water from his body, it continues to tug him along downstream.

He looks around- the next dock over is still a while away, but the shore he left is a couple of strokes away. He instinctively treads water, letting the last of the panic dissipate from his mind. Tiny waves break against his shoulders and neck, battering him with tiny droplets of knife-sharp water.

_I can do this,_ he thinks, eyeing the rapidly approaching pier. _I_ have _to do this._ Thomas pulls his arms from the oily water and starts to swim. He doesn’t so much as cut through the water as it cuts through him. It splashes and flows against his injuries and Thomas can’t help but feel like a wounded dog trying to orient himself in a whirlpool.

The water pulls on his limbs, trying to drag him down into the icy depths to a watery grave. Thomas grits his teeth and fights it, pushing himself closer to the metal boat launch. The current is working with him, and he thanks Maria for thinking of that before choosing his launching spot.

When Thomas’ hand closes around a metal pole, it feels like his fingers are going to freeze off instantly. He’s almost worried they’ll break off and get stuck on it tongue-on-a-lampost-style as he pushes off and goes for the next one.

Thomas weaves in between poles until he reaches the last one, and he stops there for a moment to catch his breath and survey the river. The next dock is closer than the first one had been from his launch point, but in the cold it looks like he’s swimming to England.

So he braces himself and pushes off again, feeling the water pulse and move around him. He makes it to the next dock in a much shorter time. This time, as he perches on the last wooden pole underneath the walkway, he peers out and spots a couple of guys in what looks like red jackets smoking, drinking, and throwing rocks into the river.

Instantly, Thomas realizes that he can’t be on the surface any longer. He has to go under if he wants to get past them, if he wants to reach the wide shipping dock he can see just ahead of him. So he breathes in deep, releases it and fulls his lungs completely before sinking under the waves and pushing off from the pole.

Completely submerged, Thomas actually feels a bit warmer, if just because his whole body adjusts and isn’t in and out of the summer air. Thomas doesn’t dare crack open his eyes, who knows what might blind him in the filthy water. He just keeps pushing, not quite sure how far he’s gone, what direction he’s going, if he’s passed the Redcoats on the shore or not. The current speeds up around him, pushing him faster than his limbs ever could.

He only dares break the surface when his lungs start to scream for air again. He pops his head out of the water just long enough to find that he’s accidentally swam closer to shore, but far past the Redcoat boys. Far enough past that for a second, Thomas thinks he’s overshot the dock Maria wanted him at.

Fear floods his mind as he realizes he’s not strong enough to fight the current. He looks around frantically, hoping he _hasn’t_ fucked it up. The water still pulls him along and Thomas tries to stay in one spot, tries to reorient himself-

The water slams him back-first into something and instantly Thomas feels air rush out of his lungs. He gasps, head sinking slightly under the waves again and he takes in another mouthful of water. The current pins him against whatever’s at his back until one of his legs slips free and then he’s being pulled around it and further down river.

Thomas- sputtering and coughing, fighting to keep his head above water- gets a glimpse of what he was pinned against. It was a thick wooden pole, like a tree trunk that’s been stripped of bark. His feet kick painfully against another one and Thomas realizes he’s under the warehouse dock.

The next moment he’s twisting in the water, trying to reach for the next pole and keep himself from being pulled past it. His wet fingers scrabble for purchase on slick wood, and he’s pulled away before he can grab on.

_There has to be another,_ Thomas thinks, already fighting to turn his body around in the water, _please, let there be another_. His prayers are answered when he sees he’s about three seconds from face-planting into another support beam. Thomas doesn’t do anything to stop the impact, just turns his head and braces for it.

He flies into it, the pole slamming into his chest and stomach. Thomas gasps, the air being forced out of him for the third time. But he manages to wrap his arms around it and hold on tight. The water batters his back, the current pulls on him but he wraps his legs around it too and he almost feels secure.

Thomas peeks open his eyes to find he’s managed to latch onto the last pole on the edge- if he had missed it he would have been out in the open Hudson again. Thomas sends a prayer of thanks, breathing air back into his abused lungs. He looks up, the edge of the dock to his left and the paneling of the walkway to his right. Fluorescent lights shine through the cracks, casting a striped pattern on the water that’s broken up by the small, frothing waves.

A larger wave cracks across Thomas’ back and Thomas squeezes the pole harder. He thinks about reaching for the pier, about pulling himself up but he doesn’t trust his exhausted limbs to work. Besides, he has no idea if the dock is clear or not. A near-naked man pulling himself onto shore deep in Redcoat territory wouldn’t go over well.

Which is what he needs Maria for, he realizes. _If Maria even shows up_ , the traitorous part of his brain thinks. _Why did we let her know we’re a cop? She could just leave us to drown now._

_Shut up, she’s coming,_ Thomas tells himself. _She’s coming_.

Thomas has no idea how long he clings to the pole like a wet cat before he hears the tell-tale sound of footsteps on wood above him. He glances up, but can’t see who it is through the cracks. Underneath the boards, the sound echos and Thomas can’t even begin to guess who’s above him. He holds his breath, hoping beyond all hope that it's Maria come help him and not any of the other dozens of Redcoats likely to be in the warehouse.

The footsteps reach the end of the dock and stop. Thomas hears person kneel down, watches with bated breath has two hands curl around the lip of the wood. Then a face appears, peering down the darkness.

"Mr. Clark," Maria whisper-calls. Thomas lets out held breath, instantly regretting it as drops of water hit the inside of his mouth.

"Over here," he calls back, matching her volume. Maria's eyes snap to him and she scoots down the dock towards him. She leans over the edge, eyeing Thomas' precarious position. "Now what?" Maria bites her lip, thinking.

"Can grab my hand?" She asks, sticking one arm out to Thomas. He looks at it for a moment, then back up at her

"The current’s pretty strong," he says. "We're going to have be quick," Maria nods, braces herself, then says:

"Let's do it."

"Are you sure you can pull me up?" Thomas asks. "I'm big, and wet and-"

"That's what he said, now let's go before someone sees." Mariah shakes her hand vigorously. Thomas hesitates. _No other choice,_ I guess, _he thinks._

"All right, on the count of three." Thomas braces himself against the pole. "One, two, three!" Thomas pushes his body away from the smooth wood; one hand in Maria's, the other scrabbling for grip on the dock edge. He finds it, holding on for dear life as his legs dangle in the swiftly moving water

"Shit," Thomas breathes. "Pull, pull, _pull_!" Mariah heaves and Thomas pushes himself up with all his might, feeling the water hole at his legs and feet. A sickening sucking sound comes from the water as Thomas manages to break free from its grip.

With one final push, Thomas flops onto the dock. He's never been more grateful to be on dry land than he is in this moment. He pants against the wood, his body finally having a moment to relax. He coughs and sputters as the last of the water in his system finally clears out. Maria pounds him on the back.

"Sorry I didn't get here faster," Maria says. "Three of the boys held me up a moment."

"That's fine. You got here eventually," Thomas says, throat sore from the water scraping up and down it.

"I found you a towel." Maria holds out a white towel to Thomas. He accepts it, sitting up and running it over his shoulders. "And I have your clothes." Maria drops them on the dock next to him and looks around. “And this.” Maria dangles Thomas’ pistol by one finger. “Hurry up.”

“Wow, thanks for the concern, ‘Mama Reynolds,’” Thomas drawls, drawing the towel through his hair and standing up. “I could have drowned back there.” The water feels oily as he does his best quick dry. _It has to be filled with unspeakable things,_ he thinks, dropping the towel and wringing out his boxers as best he can. But the fabric clings to his skin and despite the warm air, Thomas is starting to shiver.

“Sorry if I have lost a little sympathy for you, Agent,” she says, though her voice isn’t completely cold. Thomas smiles apologetically.

“Sorry,” he says, trying to make a decision. _Fuck it,_ he thinks. “Could you turn around?”

Maria rolls her eyes, but spins. “I’ll make sure no one’s coming.”

Thomas grunts his thanks, quickly shedding his boxers and putting his jeans back on as quickly as possible. Going commando is better than letting gross river water sit on his skin for who knows how long. With a sigh, he resigns his boxers to death and flings them back into the water. “You’re good,” he says as he reaches for his shirt.

Just before he slides it on, he looks down at his chest. Nothing’s torn back open, thank god. _Maybe nothing will get infected either,_ Thomas prays. Maria’s eyes are already coming back to him once his shirt is on and settled. Thomas almost feels dry, could trick himself if it weren’t for the crawling oil on his skin and his limp curls flat against his head and neck.

“I blame you for the damage to my hair,” he says. Maria snorts.

“Come on, we’re wasting time.” Maria hands Thomas his gun and leads him to a small door by the dock and holds a hand out for him to stop as she pokes her head in. Thomas glances about, they’re fairly concealed behind a few crates. He still can’t help but feel like King or another Redcoat is going to come strolling around the corner at any second.

“Clear,” Maria mutters, opening the door far enough for them both to slide through. It shuts behind them with a heavy _thud_ that echoes around the warehouse they’re in. There are shelves of various things- crates, bags of white powder, chemical bottles, boxes of ammunition- that stretch all the way down the length. Thomas lets Maria go first, lets her check each aisle for people before following.

“Told you the warehouse would be empty,” she says. Thomas grunts in response, ears pricked for the sound of doors opening or footsteps. The reach the far wall and start down the aisle. The click of Maria’s heels bounce off the walls and the sound is almost deafening to Thomas’ fraying nerves. They’re about halfway down the aisle when they reach a door situated between two shelves. “Here,” Maria says. “They’re behind this door.”

“Alright,” Thomas breathes. He eyes the doorknob, then the hinges. “I could probably kick it down-”

“If you want to attract attention, you could,” Maria interrupts. “Besides, we have no idea who’s all in there.”

“So what do we do?” Thomas asks. Maria bites her lip, then points at a stack of crates just down the aisle.

“Hide for a second,” she instructs. Seeing as the rest of her plans have gone alright so far, Thomas complies, crouching behind a large box and sandwiching himself between it and the wall. He watches as Maria takes a deep breath, raises a hand and knocks.

Her raps, a soft pattern to precise not to be pre-decided, echo and Thomas catches himself holding his breath. They wait in the silence before the doorknob turns and the door opens just far enough for Samuel Seabury to stick his head out.

“Maria, what can I do for you?” He asks. Thomas flinches at the sound, the light british accent jarring against his very bones. The crown on his chest tingles as Thomas looks at the man who has haunted his nights for the last couple of days.

“I was looking for James,” Maria replies, her voice soft and far more subservient than it has any right to be. “He needs to take care of a payment problem.”

“He’s not here, sorry, my dear.” Seabury frowns apologetically. Maria fidgets.

“What about the boss?”

“No, just me and your little gift.” Seabury chuckles. “Thank you, by the way.” Maria mutters something, and Seabury’s eyes flash for a moment, but he doesn’t do anything besides speak again. “What did you need George for?”

“Just wondered if he knew where James was,” Maria explains. “I’ll check the front again.”

“Good plan love,” Seabury says. “I’ll see you around.”

Maria says her goodbye as Seabury slides back into the room and shuts the door with a click. Thomas watches her visibly relax, her shoulders straightening again. She looks back at him, crosses to the pile quickly and kneels before him.

“Did you hear?’ She asks. Thomas nods.

“It’s just the two of them. I can take Seabury, I’m armed.” Thomas glances about before reaching out and carefully putting a hand on Maria’s shoulder. “Should he have seen you?”

“We can tie me up in the corner later,” Maria says. “I’ll be fine.” There’s a flicker of uncertainty, of fear in her eyes but her face is set in a determined expression and Thomas decides to pretend not to see underneath it.

“Alright.” Thomas wiggles his way out of his spot, Maria dutifully moving out of his way.

“Repeat my knock, he’ll come out. Once you’re inside, I’ll watch the door,” Maria offers. Thomas looks at her like if he tries hard enough, he’ll see why she chose to switch sides for this and this only. She doesn’t meet his gaze, her eyes flicking around the area quickly. Thomas just nods.

“Two, pause, two, pause, one?” He asks. Maria nods.

“Good memory, Mr. Clark.”

“Thanks,” Thomas breathes. He looks at the door, hand tightening around his gun. “I’m going in,” he warns.

“Good luck.”

Thomas doesn’t respond, but strides over to the door as silently as possible. Steeling himself, trying not to image what he’s going to see inside that room, Thomas raises his hand and knocks. Twice, pause, twice again, pause, and then once more. He steps back, shifting his weight and getting ready to attack.

“Did you need something else, Maria dear?” Seabury calls from inside. Thomas swallows, shifting his gun to his left hand and breathes deep.

The doorknob turns. The door creaks open an inch, two, three. A sprig of reddish-blonde hair pokes out.

Thomas clenches his fist and winds up.

Seabury’s face appears. In a split second, his face goes from kind annoyance to confusion to fear.

Then Thomas’ punch lands in a direct hit and Seabury’s head snaps back. It thuds against the door frame and Thomas sees his hand come off the inside doorknob.

As Seabury reels back, the shock and surprise giving Thomas the advantage, Thomas wrenches the door open and puts his shoulder into Seabury’s chest. The man staggers back, one hand at his face and Thomas darts in after him. He switches gun hands, uses his now free left one to close the door behind him.

It shuts with a click and Thomas is glaring down his sights at Seabury. The other man glowers, it’s obvious he’s ready to launch an attack but Seabury sees the gun pointed at him and he freezes. Slowly, Seabury’s hands rise up into the air.

“Agent Jefferson,” he says, voice steady. “Let’s not be hasty here.”

Thomas breathes deep, staring Seabury down with enough force to kill him if looks could do so. “Where is he?” He asks. Seabury’s eyes glitter. He jerks his head back and to the right.

“Over there.” Thomas follows Seabury’s motion with his eyes, peering over the shorter man’s shoulder.

There, under the glare of a harsh light, strapped down to an oh so familiar chair, is Alexander. His head is hung to his chest, his whole body seemingly limp against the wooden seat. He’s blindfolded, and Thomas can see earplugs stuck in his ears. From this distance, Thomas realizes two things:

He can’t tell if Alexander’s breathing, and there is so much blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this and the last chapter were planned to be one, but oh well. Injury's a bitch.
> 
> See you Friday


	37. The Day These Boys Learn That Their Actions Have Consequences Will Be The Day That Pigs Learn To Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander and Thomas pass the point of no return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning note:
> 
> Implied/referenced and some on-screen torture! Again! It is nowhere near as graphic as last time, though the injuries and consequences are much worse. Thomas keeps his eyes averted for most of it, and so it is more described in sounds than actual images or sensations. I'd suggest cutting off at "Samuel, Samuel, Samuel," if you need to, and here's a rundown of events after that point (skip if you want to avoid spoilers):
> 
> Alexander attempts to question Seabury as to the perpetrators of the Safe Harbors shooting, and when Seabury doesn't answer, he hacks off three of Seabury's fingers. Thomas doesn't do anything to stop him, realizing that a deep, twisted part of him does consider this adequate revenge. Maria, concerned how long Thomas is taking, pokes her head in to see what's happening. Alexander is finally convinced by the both of them that they need to get going, but before he leaves, he carves out one of Seabury's eyes. The chapter ends with Maria saying that 'someone heard that last scream.'
> 
> Thanks, and take care of yourself!

Alexander, the chair, even the _floor_ is covered in red blood. The lamp over Alexander’s head casts the color bright and stark against the dark grey concrete and the light brown chair. The sharp, metallic scent floods Thomas’ nose and for a second, he thinks he’s going to be sick.

“See, he’s fine,” Seabury says. Thomas’ gaze snaps back onto him.

“We have very different definitions of ‘fine,’ then.” Thomas adjusts the grip of his pistol. He glares down the barrel at Seabury, doing mental calculations. He _thinks_ the room is fairly soundproof, but probably not enough to muffle an unsilenced gunshot. He can’t risk it, he knows, but that doesn’t stop Thomas from squeezing the grip and fiddling with the trigger anyway.

Seabury watches him, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. Other than that, the man stays as calm as possible. “I have to admit, I’m surprised you got through. George has the whole place on alert for you. I haven’t heard the alarm, so you _must_ be alone.”

“It seems you underestimated me,” Thomas replies. “I told you I’d be seeing you.”

Seabury smiles, but it’s a small, twisted thing. “And seeing me you are.”

They stand in silence for a moment, both men considering their next moves. The surprise and fear begin to drain from Seabury, his posture relaxed. “What now, Agent?”

 _Didn’t really think this far ahead,_ Thomas realizes. _Didn’t plan much at all actually._ He doesn’t voice those thoughts, however. Instead he motions with his gun towards Alexander.

“You’re going to untie him.”

Seabury scoffs. “You can’t make me do that.”

“You forget who’s holding the gun,” Thomas replies. Seabury’s smile grows.

“Ah, but you can’t risk the sound, can you?” Seabury asks, mockery plain in his voice. “So, what are we going to do, stand here until someone comes back?”

Thomas’ very teeth are on edge. The man’s very voice threatens to send chills down his back and break his resolve. He has to focus on maintaining composure, with Alexander possibly dead in the corner and Seabury mocking him while he’s awake. He’s so focused on staying intimidating, he almost doesn’t see Seabury shift his feet. But he does, he just sees Seabury settle into what looks like a combat ready pose and a moment before it happens, Thomas realizes Seabury intends to lunge.

Seabury is clumsy, obviously unpracticed but he moves fast enough to get within Thomas’ reach, essentially negating any chance Thomas could shoot him. Seabury goes for a quick uppercut, and Thomas dances to the side. He’s preparing himself for a longer fight, but Seabury has other plans.

Seabury shoots past Thomas, reaching for the only exit door. Thomas realizes that Seabury never intended on actually getting in a fist fight- Seabury’s smart enough to know how that would end- so he was just distracting Thomas enough to make a break for it. Thomas figures he has just a couple of seconds to stop the man, so he does the first thing he can think of.

Thomas throws his gun as hard as he can at Seabury’s gut.

It connects and Thomas can hear the grunt of pain and air leave Seabury as the man stumbles under the impact. Thomas takes his opportunity, throwing himself at Seabury and pinning him to the floor. Instantly, Seabury starts to struggle, twisting his body in an attempt to squirm away but Thomas doesn’t think, just does.

Thomas grabs Seabury by the head with both hands and smashes him against the hard ground. Instantly, Seabury stills. His body goes rigid, then limp and Thomas’ brain catches up with his actions.

 _Holy fuck, I killed him,_ Thomas thinks, hands flying away from Seabury’s head. For a moment, all is quiet, then Seabury lets out a groan and his eyes flutter open, unfocused. Thomas lets out a breath, oddly relieved that Seabury is apparently alive, if not fully aware. He glances about, finds a coil of bloodstained rope by the door and grabs it. A moment later, Seabury’s ankles and wrists are secured together and finally Thomas stands and staggers away from the man.

Seabury is prone on the ground, tied up and secure. Thomas, breathing hard, watches him as his eyes slowly refocus and sharpen. “Stay,” Thomas mutters, as if Seabury has the ability to do anything else. Seabury just groans in response, managing to roll onto his side and curl into a small ball.

Thomas realizes he does not feel guilty about what he’s done thus far, not one bit.

 _Alexander,_ his brain reminds him, and Thomas immediately snaps to attention, whirling to rush to the blood-soaked chair in the center of the room. Thomas reaches Alexander in a matter of seconds, and as he gets closer he notices most of the blood on the floor is an old rust red, not fresh and bright like the stuff on Alexander’s clothes. _That must be mine,_ Thomas realizes in a sickening flash.

The man himself is still limp in his seat, either unconscious or oblivious to what’s happened. Thomas, still unsure if Alexander is actually breathing, raises his shaking hands and reaches for Alexander’s neck. The moment Thomas’ fingers come in contact with Alexander’s throat to check for pulse, the man underneath his hand stiffens.

Alexander inhales sharply, face scrunching into a scowl, but Thomas has never felt happier to see Alexander so pissed off.

“Hands off, fucker,” Alexander grunts, his voice harsh. Thomas instantly jerks his hands away.

“Alexander, it’s okay, it’s me,” he says, and then remembers that Seabury plugged his ears. _Sensory deprivation,_ Thomas realizes, _so Alexander couldn’t know what was coming._ Forcing down the bile that rises to his throat at the thought of what Alexander went through, Thomas runs his hands against Alexander’s head until his finds his ears and tugs out the noise-blocking plugs.

“Alexander, it’s Thomas, I’m here to rescue you,” Thomas says. Alexander stills again, and Thomas reaches behind Alexander’s head to fumble with the blindfold.

“Thomas?” Alexander asks softly, as if he doesn’t quite believe it. Then Thomas manages to pull the cloth from his eyes and Alexander winces in the light. A moment later, he looks at Thomas and Thomas looks back.

“Yeah,” Thomas replies.

“Where’s everyone else?” Alexander asks.

“It’s just me,” Thomas admits. Alexander’s eyes widen, and Thomas looks down at him still strapped in. “Come on, let's get you out of here.” Thomas kneels in front of him, reaching for the ropes tying him down. He feel’s Alexander’s eyes glued on him, the words already brewing in the other man’s head.

“Feel kinda like Eaker right now, I bet,” Thomas breathes, the panicking part of his brain wondering how he can be calm enough for a joke. Thomas practically rips Alexander’s bindings from him, and when he’s done Thomas looks up. Alexander’s face is just inches away, his expression still reeling, still confused.

“Why?” Alexander asks. Thomas understands he doesn’t mean the Eaker comment. The words Thomas wants to say close up his throat, lock his lips together so instead Thomas just stands. He reaches out, lifts Alexander out of the chair- the man is willingly pliant and a part of him sends up red flags at that fact- and gives Alexander the hardest hug he’s ever given in his life.

 _He’s safe, he’s alive,_ Thomas thinks, relief flooding him. _He’s alive._ Thomas presses his face into the top of Alexander’s shoulder and sends a prayer of thanks.

Alexander, for his part, stiffens underneath Thomas’ arms. He feels Alexander’s knees lock and his shoulders tighten. _He thinks I hate him,_ Thomas remembers. _He hates me._ But he doesn’t care. Alexander is _safe_. He’s safe and with Thomas and Thomas swears never to let something like this happen ever again.

But he doesn’t voice any of it. He can’t. Not if Alexander is so repulsed by him that he won’t even accept a hug post-rescue. Not if Thomas still carries a badge and Alexander has his rap sheet a few feet long.

So Thomas pulls back, despite it being the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. Alexander looks like a deer caught in the headlights, which Thomas supposes is fair. A lot just changed for the man in a space of a few moments and the man he hates just bear hugged him. His clothes are stained with his own blood and Thomas-

Thomas probably just exasperated whatever injuries Alexander has.

 _Fuck,_ Thomas thinks. He plants his hands on Alexander’s shoulders as lightly as possible.

“How bad did they hurt you?” Thomas asks, eyes scanning Alexander’s body for major wounds. Alexander starts, suddenly coming back to himself.

“A few cuts, broke two of my fingers,” Alexander mutters. Thomas looks up at Alexander in surprise. “They said something about waiting for you,” Alexander explains, and Thomas’ stomach plummets. _Waiting for me,_ he thinks, _they were going to use Alexander against me._

A creeping thought in the back of Thomas’ head says it would have worked.

“If you’re okay, let's go.” Thomas steps back from Alexander, letting his hands fall away like how he would like the thoughts of what they would have done to Alexander fall from his mind. Alexander nods stiffly, but as they made their way towards, the door, Alexander catches sight of the still-prone Seabury.

“Did you kill him?” Alexander stops in place, staring at the Redcoat leader.

“No.”

“Shame,” Alexander says, but a second later his eyes light up. “Or maybe not…”

“What are you thinking?” Thomas asks. He doesn’t like the devilish glint in the other man’s eyes.

“Revenge.”

Thomas blinks, shocked for a second Alexander would even suggest that sort of thing. But then Alexander turns to him with a wicked grin on his face. “And information,” Alexander adds. “Let's get him in that chair.”

“Alex, no,” Thomas protests. “We don’t have the time.”

“No one’s gonna come, no one can hear.” Alexander squats down by Seabury’s shoulders. “Maybe he’ll tell us who was at Safe Harbors.”

“Alexander-”

“Help me lift him,” Alexander commands. He slips his hands under Seabury’s arms, hooking under his armpits and pulling. Seabury groans, as he’s forced into a sitting position and Alexander starts to drag him across the floor. Thomas just watches, listens to Seabury’s legs drag on the concrete and Alexander’s labored breathing.

Alexander grunts as he lifts the barely-conscious man into the chair. Seabury doesn’t fight as Alexander ties his limbs down with the remnants of Alexander’s old bindings. “Thanks for the helping hand, asshole,” Alexander grumbles as he ties a knot by Seabury’s wrist. Thomas glances at the door.

“Let’s just go, leave him.” But Alexander doesn’t listen. He finishes the last knot and pats Seabury on the face.

“Hey Sam, wake up buddy,” Alexander jeers. Seabury’s eyes flutter back open and he grunts in response. “Got a few questions for you. A bone to pick too…”

“Alexander, _we need to go_.”

“Hey,” Alexander snaps. “Don’t you want to know what he knows?” Thomas fidgets, feet shuffling in place.

“Torture is an unreliable-”

Alexander waves him silent. “Don’t you want revenge for what he did to you?”

Thomas feels his fingers and toes tingle, the crown brand burn in his skin, but he shakes his head. “An eye for an eye just leaves the whole world blind.” Alexander scoffs, glancing around the room. “I… I can’t stand to watch it happen to someone else,” Thomas admits.

“Then don’t watch,” Alexander counters. His eyes alight on Seabury’s velvet bag of tools and a twisted grin splits his face. He strides across the room and picks it up.

“We don’t have time,” Thomas protests again.

“Watch the door if you want,” Alexander says. “But no one’s coming.” He returns to stand before Seabury. Alexander fishes a knife from the bad, the clinking of metal from inside it making Thomas wince. But Thomas doesn’t move from where he stands. _Maria has the door,_ he rationalizes. _I need to get Alexander out of here._

Alexander twists the knife in the air, watching it glint in the light.

“Samuel, Samuel, Samuel,” Alexander admonishes, like Seabury was a puppy he caught chewing a shoe. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself in a pickle, haven’t you?” Alexander chuckles. “Get yourself out of it by telling me who was at Safe Harbors.”

Seabury just groans in response. Alexander leans in close and asks: “Repeat yourself?”

“...Fuck...off” is Seabury’s pain-riddled reply. Alexander just sighs.

“You of all people should know how this works.” Alexander flattens Seabury’s hand against the arm of the chair and lines the knife up with his finger. Before Thomas can protest that they don’t have time for the fingernail treatment, Alexander raises the blade and swings it down.

Seabury screams.

A finger falls to the floor in a waterfall of blood.

Thomas turns away, his stomach revolting and Seabury’s scream ringing in his ears long after the man’s fallen silent. He hears Alexander repeat the question, but Thomas tries to shut out what’s happening behind him.

There’s another scream.

Thomas realizes that- while he’s upset at Alexander- not all of him is. Part of him _wanted_ this. Some sick, twisted part of him hears the screams and cheers.

A third scream.

The scent of blood grows stronger.

Thomas has to remind himself to breathe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas sees the door open slightly. He gets ready to call Alexander off when Maria’s head pokes through.

“What’s taking so long-” she cuts off, her face going ashen and Thomas knows what she’s looking at. He can hear Seabury’s quiet whimpers.

“Maria…” Seabury pleads, but Thomas can hear in his voice that Seabury doesn’t expect Maria to help him. Alexander looks up, starts when he sees who it is.

“Maria?”

“Hey,” Maria offers him a shy smile. “Sorry about calling James...”

“...No problem, I understand…” he trails, looking up at Thomas. Thomas shrugs, doing his best not to look at Seabury.

“Had to track you down somehow,” Thomas explains. Alexander glances between them, then nods.

“Not the cavalry rescue I imagined, but okay.” Alexander looks back at Seabury. “You should probably shut the door again.”

“We shouldn’t dilly-dally Alex,” Maria warns.

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Thomas grumbles. But Alexander is already looming over Seabury again. Thomas and Maria share a look, silently trying to figure out how to make Alexander stop. Then Alexander lets out a groan of frustration.

“He’s passed out,” Alexander says.

“Good, we can go now,” Thomas replies. Maria nods, but Alexander is looking at Seabury’s unconscious body with head tilted and a gleam in his eyes.

“What was it you said?” Alexander wonders aloud. “An ‘eye for an eye?’”

“Alexan-”

But Alexander is already grabbing Seabury’s chin, knife carefully aimed at the corner of Seabury’s eye. Before either Maria or Thomas can say or do anything, Alexander plunges the knife in.

Seabury wakes up with an ear-splitting screech. He tries to pull away, but Alexander holds him tight. Thomas hears something _squelch_. Alexander flicks his wrist and a pile of flesh flies through the air and lands on the floor with a sickening _plop_.

Seabury collapses, unconscious once more. Alexander steps away and Thomas sees the blood run from a now-empty eye socket and down Seabury’s face. Alexander uses his sleeve to wipe blood from his face.

“Alright,” Alexander breathes. “We can go now.”

“Good,” Maria says before Thomas can speak. “Because I think someone heard that last scream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha shout out to me for updating super late in the day because a bunch of bullshit went down. It's all good, just time-consuming. Thanks for being patient!
> 
> My arm is doing much better and chapter lengths should start to slowly increase! Also, my last day of school is next Friday, so I should have a lot of time on my hands soon.
> 
> (Watch out for a fic me and KooKooKarli are writing together. I have no idea when it'll be out, but it's gonna be great you guys.)
> 
> Story Notes:
> 
> Never throw guns guys that's dangerous.
> 
> See you Friday!


	38. The Stealth Video Game Level Complete With An Unavoidable Cut Scene At The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck this level though, because it's a 'follow the npc' and an escort mission wombo combo

“Shit,” Alexander breathes.

“Told you,” Thomas snaps back, grabbing Alexander by the wrist.

“They only heard because the door was open!” Alexander protests, but lets himself be led to the door anyway. Thomas grabs his gun from the florr, and Maria ushers them out, pushing the two men towards the back of the warehouse, where she and Thomas had entered.

“Hide,” she hisses, and Thomas and Alexander scramble to comply. Alexander dives behind a box on the back shelf and Thomas wedges himself back where he had hid previously. Maria takes a post at the end of an aisle, the short side of a shelf at her back.

From where he is, Thomas can’t see either of them, and it makes him anxious. He knows that it’s a good thing, that if he _could_ see them then someone else could too. He still doesn’t like it. Hours of ‘keep your team in sight’ training and having just found Alexander again makes him jittery.

But then he hears footsteps behind him and Thomas holds his breath. _Please just walk away, screams are normal,_ Thomas pleads the mystery person. _Just walk away, walk away, walk away-_

“Sammy dear, I thought we agreed to wait for Thomas?” King asks, his voice coming from where the footsteps are. _Shit._ Thomas stiffens. _Shit shit shit shit shit._ “Samuel? Why’s the door open?” Thomas hears King push the door open slightly. “Sammy?”

Then comes a sound Thomas has heard before. The sound parents make when presented with the body of their child. The sound the husband of a missing wife makes when she’s found with a brand seared into her skin. The sound a burn victim makes when he sees his reflection for the first time:

Pure, unadulterated shock interwoven with grief.

King _wails_ , and for a second, Thomas actually feels bad for him and Seabury. He hears King rush into that damned room, calling Seabury’s name again and again. Thomas keeps his eyes glued on the wall ahead of him. Maria sticks her head out and makes eye contact with Thomas.

‘Move,’ she mouths, and motions for him to come to her. Thomas slides out of his spot, glancing back at the door from within King’s pleading for Seabury to wake up- _please Sammy, oh god, wake up_ \- comes. Thomas moves as silently as possible, and dashes to where Maria was as she makes a break for the next shelf.

Thomas plants his back on the shelf as Maria checks if it’s clear to keep moving. He looks over, spots Alexander where he’s crouching and in his eyes shines giddy victory. Maria dashes to the next shelf, motioning for Thomas to follow and Alexander sprints to take Thomas’ place. Maria is just a short sprint to the harbor door now, and Thomas can almost taste freedom.

Then there are more footsteps, these more thunderous as a group of people rush into the warehouse. Redcoats alerted by King’s screams, Thomas figures. He listens, breath caught in his throat, as they skid to a stop by the door.

“Boss?” Someone asks. Alexander pokes his head out to glance down the aisle, then snaps back into cover.

“Get. Reynolds,” comes King’s voice, hard, rage-filled, _vengeful_. “ _Get Reynolds now_.” Pairs of footsteps split up to follow orders, some heading back outside, some already heading up and down the aisle ways. Thomas risks a glance, then snaps back into hiding when he catches a glimpse of bright red coming towards him.

_Fuck,_ he thinks. He looks over at Maria, eyes wide. She bites her lip, and looks back at him helplessly.

Heavy footsteps thud down the aisle, coming ever closer to Thomas. Thomas glances at Alexander, who seems to be eyeing a box cutter left on a shelf.

The footsteps reach the end of the shelves. Thomas’ own breath threatens to choke him, his body coiled like a spring.

And then Hercules Mulligan’s face comes into view.

Mulligan blinks at Thomas, who’s jaw drops in relief but his body still doesn’t remember how to breathe. Grim understanding settles on Mulligan’s face, his expression turning stony. He looks over at Alexander, who waves almost amicably, like they’ve run into each other on the street instead of the current circumstances.

Mulligan then glances the other way, eyes falling on Maria who looks petrified. Alexander leans forward far enough to shoot her a thumbs up, and as Mulligan turns back around to head back up the aisle Maria gets it, if the expression on her face is any indication.

“No one over here,” Mulligan’s voice booms in the warehouse. Answering calls of similar answers echo him, and Thomas feels his knees go weak. Maria looks like she’s breathing again, and she glances to check to see if the coast is clear. For the first time, Thomas notices she’s taken off her heels and is holding them in one hand.

Maria slips over to the dock door, motioning for Thomas and Alexander to stay put. She puts a hand on the doorknob, bracing herself for noise, but it thankfully slips open silently. Maria frantically waves Thomas and Alexander over. Thomas checks the aisle he’s crossing and- finding it clear- runs to the next shelf. Alexander is just behind him.

A moment later, Thomas is slipping out of the door Maria so carefully is holding open. Alexander is a heartbeat behind, bursting out into the dawning light like he’d been trapped in a cave for decades.

Maria silently shuts the door behind her and Thomas finds himself able to breathe again. “You can swim, right?” Thomas asks, looking at the two of them.

Alexander looks down at the churning Hudson. “You want me to swim in that?”

“It’s how I got in,” Thomas counters. Alexander’s nose scrunches up, and he opens his mouth to speak. A counterargument is already on Thomas’ lips-

“Doesn’t matter,” Maria says. “We’re too far downriver that by the time we’d get somewhere safe, we’ll be out in the bay. Besides, _I_ can’t swim.” She smiles apologetically. “Alexander shouldn’t anyway.”

In any other circumstance, Thomas might make some snarky _oh so he’s too precious to swim_ comment, but he finds himself agreeing. The water’s too dangerous and Alexander’s wounds are a lot fresher than Thomas’.

“So where do we go?” Thomas asks, keeping his voice down. There are shouts starting to travel from around the building.

“North,” Maria says. “Stick by the river until we pass the forklift garage, then we’ll have to make it across the storage lockers…” she trails, and Thomas frowns.

“After that?” He asks.

“After that is a stretch of open runway they use for drag racing,” Maria explains. “But we get past that, we _might_ be home free.”

“Alright, lead the way,” Alexander says. Maria looks between the two men for a moment, then nods. She presses her body against the wall of the warehouse, peeks out, then sprints across a short gap to a smaller building just ahead.

Thomas and Alexander follow, ducking around buildings and peering around corners as Maria forges a path. They’re making good time when Maria suddenly stops them as a gaggle of searching Redcoats pass by.

“Hold up,” she breathes. They huddle together, trying to keep themselves hidden behind a forklift. Maria has her head poked out just far enough to watch the men wander by.

“Maria,” Alexander whispers. “ _Maria._ ”

“What?” She hisses back.

“Quiet,” Thomas says. Alexander ignores him.

“Why are you helping us?” Alexander asks. Maria glances at him for a second.

“You know why,” she replies. Alexander frowns.

“If that was true, you wouldn’t have gave me up in the first place.” Maria’s jaw sets. Hurt flashes across her face and Alexander breathes a curse. “Sorry, I-”

“I just want you to be happy,” Maria says. “You deserve that, after all this.”

Alexander grimaces, but looks out to check if the group is gone and curses under his breath.

“ _Lee,_ ” Alexander hisses. “I _knew_ that motherfucker sold us out.” Thomas risks a look to see that, indeed, Charles Lee is tagging along with a small group of Redcoats. “G-wash didn’t want to believe me. ‘Oh no, Charlie would never-’”

“Reminder we’re hiding for our _lives_ ,” Thomas hisses back. Alexander scowls up at him, but shuts up.

A moment later, Maria carefully creeps out from the lift, turns a corner, and starts to lead them away from the water. Thomas glances back, watching it go with a pang of fear. That’s one more side they’re going to have to watch. As Maria leads them deeper inshore, Thomas can’t help but keep his eyes on a sweep.

And then Maria reaches the rows and rows of rentable storage, aisles of garage doors painted bright yellow. “We’re going to have to sprint to the end,” she whispers. “We can stop at the rental booth.” She points at a small, wooden booth that’s appears empty in the early morning light. Both Thomas and Alexander nod their understanding, and Maria takes off.

A moment later, both men are behind her, feet pounding the pavement as they pass door after door. Thomas keeps glancing over his shoulder, but no one’s spotted them. Maria slides into cover, Thomas and Alexander a moment later, and Thomas can’t believe they’ve almost made it. _Dear God, thank you for your blessings-_

“Oh no,” Maria breathes. Thomas’ stomach plummets. She’s looking over the counter they’re crouched under, and Thomas risks a glance. There, in the middle of the road- _the one they drag race on,_ Thomas remembers- is a group of Redcoats with flashlights and guns. Mulligan isn’t among them, they’re strange faces but angry ones.

“This fucking close,” Alexander mutters, and Thomas turns to see he’s poked his head out too.

“We can’t go back…” Maria mutters, glancing behind them. Thomas follows her line of sight and sees the Redcoat patrol making its way to the lockers.

“So we sprint,” Alexander suggests.

“They have _guns_ ,” Thomas points out, still breathing hard. “Unless you can outrun a bullet, we need a different plan.”

“Well, I don’t see many options asshole,” Alexander hisses back.

“We’re stuck,” Maria says, voice quiet and defeated. Alexander whips his head around to look at her.

“You can’t be giving up already?!” He whisper yells.

“There’s nothing but empty land in any direction, and they’ve got us surrounded.” Maria looks back at him. “I’m sorry. We tried.”

_No,_ Thomas thinks. _No, I can’t die here. Not after I just got Alexander back._ But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything but lean back into the booth-

“I’m armed!” Thomas remembers. His gun presses into his back where he’s up against the wood. Alexander’s eyes light up, but Maria just sighs.

“And outnumbered. We’re going to die.”

Thomas, smile falling, realizes that she’s right. Once again, he goes quiet.

“Gonna start praying again?” Alexander mutters to him, and Thomas is confused until he remembers the night in the Schuyler apartment. It feels like a lifetime ago now, not a few days.

“Alexander,” Maria says suddenly. “Would you do me a favor?”

“What?” Alexander asks.

“I… when James sent me to seduce you I did it out of fear, but the longer we were together I…” she trails again, looking up at Alexander with wide eyes. “Well, you know.”

Alexander is quiet for a moment, then says: “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Maria says. “I am. To both of you,” she says, looking over at Thomas. But then her eyes flick back to Alexander. “I don’t need you to say you feel the same way or anything, but since we’re going to die, could I get one last kiss?”

Thomas sees Alexander stiffen, sees Alexander glance over at Thomas so very briefly before returning to Maria. He nods, and Maria leans in. Thomas can’t watch, he averts his gaze to the floor. A moment later, he hears a quiet muttering, and then a hand comes down on his shoulder.

Thomas looks up to find Alexander looking at him, bottom lip between his teeth in deliberation. _What if I asked for Maria’s favor too,_ Thomas wonders. _Would he be as willing to comply?_ The question is just there, on the tip of his tongue. _Fuck it, we’re going to die,_ his brain thinks, but Alexander is opening his mouth to speak and-

“Thank you, and I’m sorry again,” Maria breathes. “I’m sorry for this too.”

Before either of them can ask what she means, Maria swings. Her fist connects with Alexander’s temple, and Alexander crumples against the wooden booth. Thomas starts, looking at Alexander’s unconscious form in surprise.

Maria uncurls her fist to reveal a rock the size of her palm hidden inside. “He should be out for a while,” she says. Thomas blinks, looking at her with wide eyes.

“Why did you…” he trails, motioning at the rock in her hand. She lets it tumble to the ground as she reaches for Alexander.

“Because he’d never let me do this,” she says by way of explanation. Carefully, she sheds Alexander of his blood-stained jacket, and trades it with her red one. Maria slides it on her shoulders, tucking her hair inside the collar.

“Maria, no,” Thomas says, suddenly understanding her plan. Maria looks up at him as he puts her heels on the ground next to Alexander.

“I can’t knock both of you out,” she says. “Please, don’t try and stop me.” She looks at him with sheer determination in her eyes.

“But why?” Thomas asks. “Why do this for us?”

Maria smiles sadly. “I meant what I said to him. I really did love him. Not so much anymore, but to some extent… I think I was more in love with the idea of being with him and away from James. But now I am getting away.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to get away,” Thomas argues. Maria shrugs.

“I said I didn’t want out. Getting out is impossible for me. _Getting away,_ though...” Maria looks down at Alexander for a moment. “That I can do.”

“We can figure out another way-”

“There’s no other way, Mr. Clark, or whatever your name is.” Maria shakes her head. “I want to do this for you two. Just promise me that you’ll take care of him? He needs you.”

“He hates me,” Thomas mutters, looking down at Alexander’s sleeping form.

“No he doesn’t,” Maria says.

“I’m pretty sure he does.”

Maria looks like she wants to argue, but she just sighs. “But you’ll make sure he’s okay?”

“Of course,” Thomas replies instantly. Maria smiles.

“Thank you,” she says, and Thomas gets the idea that she’s not just thanking him for promising.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Thomas asks, suddenly gripped with panic.

“You take him, and you love him.” Maria says. “You love him, and you love him hard and you never let him go. You get him out of here and you find your happiness and waste your career on him because you love him.”

“I can’t,” Thomas protests. “I-”

“I believe in you,” Maria interrupts. Then  she leans over and plants the shortest kiss on Thomas’ cheek.  “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Maria,” Thomas says. She smiles down at him, a bitter sweetness on her face. Thomas doesn’t try to stop her as she turns, steadies herself, and then shoots out from the stand. She takes off, bare feet pounding on the pavement, running towards the water. A moment later, Thomas hears the Redcoats start to shout, more running footsteps as both groups go after the running woman.

Thomas waits until the footsteps have faded a good distance away- he pretends not to hear the gunshots, prays Maria somehow manages to get away- before scooping Alexander into his arms and taking off across the tarmac. He heads away from the river, Alexander’s unconscious form tucked into his chest bridal-style.

_Thank you, Maria Reynolds_ , Thomas thinks, then turns all his focus onto running with a man in his arms. Now is not the time for regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, I graduate today! Be alert in case the update schedule changes!
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Maria Reynolds actually divorced her husband (Aaron Burr was her lawyer), married a man named Jacob Clingman, and moved to Virginia. After the publication of The Reynolds Pamphlet, the Clingmans fled to England to escape the social persecution. Maria eventually returned to Philadelphia under the name "Maria Clement." Though no record of her divorce from Clingman has been found, Maria married a third time, this time to a "Dr. Mathew" she worked as a housekeeper for. Her daughter Susan went to boarding school in Boston thanks to a patronage from Burr. She died in 1828 a fairly respected woman.
> 
> Twenty years after her death, an acquaintance of hers named Peter Grotjan claimed she had told him that she had written her own version of the Pamphlet, but if she had, it was never published and has never been recovered by historians.
> 
> See you Friday!


	39. I Legitimately Want To Know The Motel Woman's Backstory. How Much Shit Has She Seen? How Much Shit Has She Done? The World May Never Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I am the author but goddamn it. I want to know without doing the work!

It never ceases to amaze Thomas just how much people will overlook. Here he is, carrying an obviously unconscious and bleeding man in his arms, limping from the pain in his feet, on at New York City street at dawn. People pass by them on the sidewalk, gazes averted, and Thomas can’t help but wonder if their reactions are willful ignorance or early morning blindness or something else all together.

“Guess it’s just you and me,” Thomas says, looking down at Alexander’s slack face. There’s dried blood caking the right side, but Thomas can’t help but think that he’s so gorgeous asleep. “We’re in this together now. It’s going to be alright.”

At each intersection, Thomas looks around to try and orient himself. New York is a huge, sprawling city and the only thing he knows for sure is that he’s going north. Thomas stops long enough at a subway map to figure out he’s walking in the general direction of Morningside Heights.

“If we can just make it to Abigail's…” Thomas trails, trying to memorize the map as best as possible. “No, we can’t go to Abigails. They’ll look for us there. Can’t go to the condo, or the Frenchman, or your place.” He glances down at the sleeping man. “I’ll figure something out, don’t worry.”

Thomas can feel his shoes start to dampen, and he hopes that it’s simply the residue from his swim, and not is wounds cracking open again. He tries to ignore the shoots of pain as he carefully picks his way down the cracked sidewalks of New York.

He has to stop and rearrange Alexander in his arms once or twice, flipping the man around so that one arm isn’t always carrying more weight. Alexander is dead weight in his arms, but Thomas doesn’t dare think about putting him down or resorting to a fireman’s carry.

“I’ve got you, it’s going to be alright,” he whispers to Alexander’s sleeping form. “I rescued you and you’re safe and it’s all going to be okay.” Thomas thinks he recognizes this intersection- that gas station-McDonald’s combo looks familiar. “I swear to god I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” He keeps moving, and the further he goes the more he can’t help but think _I’ve been here before_. “I don’t care what you or James or anyone else says. You’re mi-”

Thomas cuts off as he realizes where he’s at. The run-down motel Burr and the Theos had hid at that first night on the run. It appears out of the cluster of buildings like the gates of heaven and Thomas feels like he just might weep. _That’s the answer,_ he realizes.

Thomas moves as fast as he can towards it, stumbling over cracks while trying to keep Alexander as still as possible. He pushes open the door with his back and a small bell chimes. A sleepy-looking receptionist- the same woman Thomas and James had questioned- looks up from her phone.

“Welcome to Motel 6, what can I do for you?” She asks. Her gaze is blank, as if two bloodied men- one unconscious and one still slightly damp- staggering into her motel at who knows what hour of the morning is usual.

“I need a room,” Thomas says. The woman nods, and then pulls a book out from the counter.

“One or two beds?”

“Two.” Thomas glances about. There’s a camera somewhere nearby. Thomas spots it out of the corner of his eye and drops his head. His anxiety is off the charts, buried just beneath his concern for Alexander.

“Eighty-nine dollars,” she intones. _Fuck, money. Of course_. Thomas shuffles Alexander in his arms until he manages to pull his wallet out of his pocket. The woman just watches, dead-eyed. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t even move until Thomas tosses a hundred dollar bill on the counter.

“Do you need the first-aid box?” She asks, punching in something on a computer and tossing the bill into a drawer.

“Yes, please,” Thomas breathes.

“I’m keeping the change then.”

“That’s fine.” Thomas watches as she pulls out an industrial-sized first-aid kit from the counter. _How often do people need this thing?_

“Can you carry it yourself?”

“Yeah, just…” Thomas holds out on hand and she pushes the handle onto his fingers. Thomas closes his fist, watching her carefully as she disinterestedly pulls a key from the wall behind her. Thomas grabs it with his other hand when she offers it.

“Left wing, three doors down. Room 34,” she grumbles. “Try not to get blood everywhere.”

“Will do,” Thomas says. _No wonder Burr chose this place,_ he thinks as he makes his way down the hallway. Now that the end is in sight, his arms are finally starting to protest. His muscles scream at him for relief, but Thomas presses on until he finds the door marked with a chipping, black 34. He struggles with the key but manages to press it into the lock and kick the door open.

Thomas shuts the door with his foot, flicks the light on with his elbow, and carries Alexander into the tiny room. Two twin-sized matresse take up most of the floor space, with a tiny dresser/tv combo and a single arm chair making up the rest. It smells of fresh paint, wallpaper and bleach, and Thomas suddenly remembers that Room 34 had been Burr’s room.

_If you have a room dedicated to bleeding messes stumbling in at odd hours of the morning and you’re not a hospital,_ the cop inside Thomas thinks, _you need to reevaluate your business_. But for the moment, he’s actually relieved this room exists. Thomas walks to the bed closest to him and lays Alexander down onto the tacky, patterned comforter.

The man is still asleep as Thomas finally lets him go, his head resting against the flat mattress. Alexander is short enough to fit between the end of the bed and the small mass of pillows easily, and Thomas grabs one and slides it carefully underneath Alexander’s head. If it weren’t for the blood, Alexander might simply have collapsed in his clothes for the night.

Thomas drops the first-aid kit on the nightstand, the metal changing against the wood, and opens it. It’s fully stocked, with a near-professional level of supplies and variance. There’s more than enough to treat them both, something Thomas is grateful for. He was worried he wouldn’t have enough to help himself after taking care of Alexander.

When Thomas looks over, he realizes that to do this _properly,_ he’s going to have to strip Alexander. He can already feel the blush creeping up his face and neck, but argues with himself that this is for _medical_ reasons, and medical reasons only. He still starts by cleaning what dried, crusted blood he can from Alexander’s face, neck and hands before pulling off Alexander’s shirt.

It seems like Alexander’ hadn’t lied, that Seabury and King really had been waiting for him, because there’s just a few clean cuts on Alexander’s arms, shoulders and chest. Thomas sighs in relief when he can’t find a crown brand anywhere. Thomas starts when he sees the half- healed circular wound on Alexander’s shoulder only to remember the man was shot but a few days before. Alexander’s jeans come off- Thomas has to peel them from his legs, they’re soaked in blood, and when Thomas gets a look at Alexander’s thighs, he gasps.

Well, at least he knows where most of the blood came from.

Thomas has to look away for a minute, and his eyes light on Alexander’s discarded pants. The upper thigh portion is almost in strips, the dried blood having kept it together until Thomas forced them off Alexander’s body. _He walked across the whole complex like that,_ Thomas realizes.

_You walked with your feet like they are,_ a part of Thomas’ brain says.

_That’s different,_ Thomas argues. _That’s me. He’s… him._

When Thomas finally collects himself he makes short work of cleaning flayed flesh and checking the rest of Alexander’s body. He doesn’t dare take the man’s boxers off, that feels like too much, and he doesn’t think Seabury would have gone that route if they had been waiting for Thomas anyway.

Almost five whole disinfectant wipes later, Thomas finally feels like he can start bandaging. Some of the wounds came open under his hands, but nothing seems too deep as to need more than gauze wrappings. So that’s what he does, even fashioning a splint for the two fingers on Alexander’s left hand that are bruised deeply and bent at bad angles.

Before he can put it on, however, he has to spend a few sickening moments setting Alexander’s fingers. He googles a quick wilderness instruction guide, but he thinks he gets it right in the end. Thomas wraps three of Alexander’s fingers together, the two broken ones and his non-broken middle finger.

_And you’re always so proud of Lauren’s ‘’medical training,’_ Thomas teases in his mind, wrapping Alexander’s fingers against the sticks. _I can do it too with Google. Fuck off John Laurens, you’re not special._ The jealous thought is through Thomas’ head before he realizes he’s thinking it, but he accepts it. Guess he going to be jealous of John Laurens now. Just another fact of his reality being in love with Alexander Hamilton.

The splint is the last thing Thomas does, so when he’s finished he lets Alexander’s hand fall onto the bed. He glances at the clock, it’s almost 7. _How much can change in one night,_ Thomas wonders. Alexander is still deep asleep, which is starting to concern Thomas. But then the sleeping man’s face twitches without waking up, and Thomas feels even the slightest bit better about it.

Before Thomas can stop himself, he reaches up and adjusts a strand of hair that fell in front of Alexander’s face. He tucks it behind Alexander’s ear and he thinks about leaning all the way down and planting a short kiss on Alexander’s lips. Then he realizes that’s kind of creepy and settles for running his fingertips along Alexander’s cheek.

Thomas finally tears himself away when he spots his injured nail beds- the bandages had come off at some point, Thomas hadn’t even noticed. He needs to treat himself, but he needs to shower even more. Get all this residue off his skin and then disinfect everything more carefully. So he regretfully leaves Alexander’s side to slide into the small bathroom in the corner of the room.

There’s barely any room inside, and Thomas ends up tossing his clothes out into the room proper. In the mirror, his skin looks red and angry, especially around his injuries. Most of the gauze has finally started to slip, so tearing it off and stuffing it in the trash is no hard task. Thomas grabs the complimentary shampoo, conditioner and soap and jumps underneath the water, not even waiting for it to heat up.

\----------------

In a hospital room in the south end of Manhattan is an quiet scene. George King holds onto his boyfriend’s- _his love of his life’s_ \- hand. Samuel is asleep, deep in a coma. The only sound is that of the heartbeat monitor.  Sunlight creeps through cracks in the window curtains, the one George has so carefully covered. Even the window door has been blacked out.

George hand squeezes Samuel’s tight. He’s holding the hand that still has all five fingers. The doctors say they can’t figure out how much the optic nerve damage has messed with his brain, or the concussion, or the blood loss, or the-

He’s been told there’s no way to predict when Sam will wake up. _If_ , the doctor had said, and George had hit him until the _if_ changed to a _when_.

Which is probably why George is allowed to be in this room so early in the morning. No one is going to pull him out of this room until Sammy opens his eyes. He stays right by the bedside even as nurses check machines and change the IV and whatever else they do. 

George hears the door open behind him. “Boss?” George can recognize the voice of James Reynolds anywhere, even when lowered in quiet deference.

“I want their heads,” George mutters.

“We’re looking-”

“ _I want them dead_ ,” George hisses, not looking away from Samuel’s sleeping face. There’s a large white bandage over his right eye. “And I want you to tear Manhattan apart until they are. Paint the streets red, make as many examples of people as you need to, they will _not_ see tomorrow.” 

\----------------

The motel water also feels rough, but it’s leagues better than the oil, sand and dirt clinging to Thomas’ body. Thomas doesn’t let himself shower long, he’d rather be out there to watch Alexander, so he does his best to scrub thoroughly without wasting time. It’s a little oxymoronic, but Thomas finally feels _clean enough_ and shuts off the water.

He runs a towel over his body and wraps it around his waist. He’s planning on just grabbing his jeans and putting them on in the bathroom, but when he opens the door he’s met with the sight of Alexander sitting up on the bed.

Thomas feels his heart sing in relief as he watches Alexander run his fingers along the bandages on his thighs. Thomas can tell the man’s a little disoriented, unsure of where he is, but him being awake is so much better than asleep.

Thomas clears his throat and Alexander’s head snaps up. Thomas sees his eyes widen, sees his gaze flick up and down repeatedly in a way that threatens to make Thomas’ whole body flush. Alexander looks down at himself, just in boxers, and back at Thomas and that’s the moment Thomas realizes that he’s only in a towel and both of their clothes are strewn haphazardly around the seedy motel room-

“Laf?” Alexander asks, looking terrified out of his mind. “How did we… we didn’t-”

“No, oh god, no. This is one-hundred-percent not what it looks like,” Thomas rambles. “There’s a reasonable explanation.” _Oh god I wish otherwise,_ a mutinous part of Thomas’ brain pipes up and Thomas shoves it right back down.

“Oh my god, Jefferson,” Alexander breathes. “ _We_ didn’t…”

“No!” Thomas says, much too harshly. Alexander flinches. “How much do you remember?” Thomas asks, much softer this time. Alexander pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“...up until Maria punching me in the temple.”

“So everything then,” Thomas says, relieved. _No memory damage, good sign._ Alexander nods, then goes pale.

“I ripped out Seabury’s eye,” he mutters. Thomas grits his jaw.

“Yes, you did.”

Alexander lets out a heavy breath, then looks around. “And how did we get here?”

“I carried you,” Thomas explains. “We’re in the motel Burr was at. I went ahead and stripped you to take care of your injuries.”

“Alright, that does make a lot more sense,” Alexander replies.

“How are you feeling?” Thomas asks. He grips the edge of the towel tighter, carefully holding it up.

“A little disoriented. I’ve got one hell of a headache, and my whole hand hurts.” Alexander lifts his splinted fingers for Thomas to look at. “Did you set them?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says. “Was a little worried when you didn’t wake up for it. You were out for a couple of hours.”

“Haven’t slept in two days,” Alexander mutters. Thomas frowns, but doesn’t say anything. _He’s_ part of the reason Alexander didn’t sleep, after all.

“Do you think you should shower?” Thomas asks. Alexander works his jaw, feeling his hair.

“I mean probably,” Alexander says. “How old are these bandages.”

“Only an hour or so.”

Alexander shrugs. “I’ll be fine until I get home. I need to pee though.” He swings his legs to the edge of the bed, and Thomas watches with baited breath as Alexander pushes himself to his feet.

“Should you be walking?” Thomas asks.

“Should you?”

_Fair enough,_ Thomas thinks, standing aside as Alexander limps his way to the small bathroom. He can feel the smaller man’s eyes on him, unabashedly staring. Thomas knows he looks good, but the idea that _Alexander_ might find him attractive sends heat down his spine. Alexander shuts the door, and Thomas can just hear the quietest “I’ve got to be dreaming” come from inside.

Thomas grabs his pants from the floor and drops the towel, getting them on as fast as possible. He collects his shirt too, but doesn’t put it on. Instead, he reaches for the first aid kit and pulls out disinfectant wipes and gauze. He rips open the first wipe and goes to work, trying to get as much of it done before Alexander comes back. He knows Alexander’s seen his body- seen his wounds before- but something about the thought of Alexander watching him tend to his injuries feels too intimate.

_What if he offered to help?_ His brain asks, and then supplies thoughts about Alexander’s soft hands trailing up and down Thomas chest and- 

_Nope, stop right now._ Thomas forces the images out of his head. Now is not the time to be fantasizing about a man who hates him. He focuses on the sting of alcohol on his injured fingertips, mentally plans out how to properly wrap all of his chest up instead.

He doesn’t even notice Alexander open the door until he glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s getting the checkered scabs on his arm. Thomas locks eyes with Alexander, who stands in the doorway with glimmering eyes. Thomas feels his face start to burn.

“Can I help you?” Thomas asks. Alexander starts, realizing for the first time he’s been caught.

“You’re hot,” Alexander says, and then his mouth shuts at the speed of light. The next second Alexander has his eyes glued on his discarded jeans and he speed walks across the room to where Thomas had thrown them. “For an asshole,” Alexander clarifies.

Thomas makes a sound in his throat somewhere between a hum and a growl, not trusting his ability to form coherent words. He looks down at the first-aid kit, fighting the blush that threatens to form across his face and neck. For a moment, the only sounds between them is Alexander getting dressed. Thomas hears him curse under his breath, but nothing that comes out of his mouth is in any grammatical order.

“So,” Alexander finally says, sliding his shirt on. Thomas is in the middle of securing a round of gauze, and he looks over. “When are we meeting up with Maria?”

Thomas’ stomach drops. Maria. _Fuck_. Alexander doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t know, he was asleep. Of course he assumes they all got out. Of course he assumes Maria is…

Thomas can’t look at him. He can’t say anything to Alexander so he just drops his gaze and tucks the end of a strip of gauze into place.

“Jefferson, where’s Maria?” Alexander asks, his voice guarded. Thomas grits his jaw.

“I…” he trails. He doesn’t have the words. He picks up another rolls of gauze.

“Where the _hell_ is Maria?!” Alexander insists. Thomas’ hands shake as he tries to start on his ruined fingernails.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. He hears Alexander inhale sharply.

“No. No, fuck you, where is she?”

Thomas takes a breath. “It was the only way.”

“Oh fuck that shit,” Alexander hisses. Thomas steels himself and goes on.

“She volunteered. We were stuck and she volunteered.” _She volunteered_ , Thomas repeats to himself. _She volunteered;_ the only source of comfort he has. Alexander is silent for a moment, then:

“We’re going back for her.”

Thomas’ head snaps up to find Alexander shrugging on Maria’s hoodie. “We can’t,” he hears himself say. Alexander whirls on him, eyes alight.

“Like hell we can’t,” he spits.

“It’s too dangerous, we _can’t_ ,” Thomas insists. Alexander’s whole body stiffens, his shoulders rise.

“She saved us, we have to go save _her._ ”

Thomas ties off the only finger he’s managed to wrap and looks up at Alexander with the most level look he thinks he can manage. “We can’t, Alexander. There’s nothing to _save_. She’s-”

“Don’t you say it.” 

“-gone. She’s gone Alexander and I regret it but it’s over now.” Thomas bites down on the bile that crawls in his throat when he thinks about Maria’s fate.

“Fuck off, we can help her!” Alexander insists. Thomas wants to scream, wants to shake the man until he understands.

“ _No we can’t!_ ” Thomas says through gritted teeth. “If we go back, we’ll end up just like her.”

“We have to try,” Alexander snaps. Thomas crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m not going.” He glares at the other man, hoping his stare is enough to make Alexander back down.

“Fine,” Alexander replies. “I’ll go by myself.”

Thomas feels his eyes bug out as his entire body goes cold. _No, no you can’t go,_ his brain screams. The words that come out of his mouth are calmer though. “You can’t.”

“I can and I will,” Alexander shoots back. “You can’t stop me, so either come with or shut up.” Alexander glares back, matching Thomas’ glare. Thomas stands from the bed, bandages left forgotten now in his growing panic.

“Alexander, if you go you won’t come back,” Thomas says. “They’ll kill you. It’s that simple!”

“In my experience, I’m pretty hard to kill.” Alexander’s expression is stormy, lips almost drawn back in a snarl.

“Yeah, well, there’s no escaping a second time. Maria already sacrificed herself for us, do you want to make that in vain?!”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t let it!” Alexander’s fists clench at his sides. “This is your fault! You could have stopped her!”

“It was her, or all three of us!” Thomas fires back. “I risked _so much_ , Maria gave _everything_ , for you and you want to throw it all away?” The air is electric between the both of them.

“I’ll be fine,” Alexander growls.

“No you won’t!” Thomas is almost yelling now, his voice steadily having rose. “You _won’t_ be fine! You go, and I’ll get a call in the morning when someone finds your fucking body floating in the river! If there’s a body left at all! For what you did to Seabury, I wouldn’t be surprised if they fed what pieces they have left of you to dogs.” Thomas can feel tears starting to well, but he keeps shouting. “And _I_ will be the one to find your finger bones in a dog’s stomach after it chokes on you and dies.”

“That’s what’s going to happen to Maria if we don’t go back!” Alexander takes a step forward, crossing a third of the distance between them in the tight quarters of the room. 

“It’s already happened, and I’m sorry, I really am. But I can’t lose you, not again, not after I spent a whole fucking night thinking you were going to be dead when I showed up at that fucking warehouse!”

“ _Why do you even care?!”_ Alexander screeches. “Why do you even fucking care? You made it perfectly clear you don’t give a shit about me.” Alexander pushes himself right up into Thomas’ chest, face turned upwards and glaring. “So why do you care if I live or die?”

Thomas stands there, staring into Alexander’s rage-filled eyes. Both of them are breathing hard, glaring at each other from inches away. Thomas knows the answer to Alexander’s question; oh god he knows it all too well. The words to tell him get locked in Thomas’ throat and the pricking of tears threatens to spill over.

Thomas finds himself acting almost subconsciously, a long suppressed part of his brain taking over for him as his hands come up to grab Alexander’s face. And before Thomas really knows what he’s doing, he closes the last remaining distance and kisses Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 39 Chapters.
> 
> _39 Chapters._
> 
> And we're not close to done yet. If what Alexander did to Seabury was the point of no return, this was Thomas locking the door behind them.
> 
> (In other news I've been waiting all week to post this you have No Idea how excited I am.)
> 
> See you Friday.


	40. Chapter 40 And These Idiots Still Can't Fucking Communicate Properly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses don't always solve everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated tags: Almost smut, decapitation.
> 
> If you're not into that, don't worry. It doesn't go very far.
> 
> Also, there's a severed head. Not involved in the almost smut, but it exists.

Thomas pushes their lips together and doesn’t even care that Alexander freezes under his hands and mouth. Thomas just screws his eyes shut- feeling tears start to run down his cheeks- and keeps himself still against the other man. The kiss is nothing but soft and Thomas just holds on and he’s kissing Alexander Hamilton.

And oh _fuck_ he’s kissing Alexander Hamilton.

The moment he catches up with himself, Thomas pulls away. In total, the kiss only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Thomas’ hands tremble as he pulls them away from Alexander’s cheeks and suddenly he realizes his whole body is shaking. Thomas opens his eyes wide enough to see Alexander’s shell-shocked face looking back at him.

_Please don’t go. Don’t go because losing you is the scariest thing I can imagine. Don’t go because I need you and I can’t bear the thought of you being gone. Please, please don’t go._ The plea is on the tip of his tongue, the first _please_ half formed on his lips when Alexander moves.

Alexander grabs Thomas by the shoulders and pulls him downwards until their lips collide again.

It’s Thomas’ turn to be shocked, but his body falls into it almost instantly. Alexander’s lips move against his and Thomas kisses back with a newfound intensity. Alexander runs his hands up Thomas’ neck until they’re tangled in Thomas’ hair and Thomas’ hands come down onto Alexander’s hips, pulling the other man impossibly closer.

Thomas feels like fireworks are erupting behind his closed eyelids, and suddenly nothing but this- the feeling of Alexander, the taste of him, the very scent of the man- is real. They break for but a moment to gasp, and then they’re back at it. And then Alexander is nipping at Thomas’ lip and then there’s a tongue in Thomas’ mouth that’s not his and then there’s a hand running down his chest and then- 

Alexander pulls back and Thomas whines, looking for the contact again. He doesn’t open his eyes, simply moves his face forward and down, blindly chasing the other man he knows is there. But now both of Alexander’s hands are planted on Thomas’ chest and are pushing, _pushing_ him back. Thomas’ knees catch on the edge of something, and he finds himself in the single armchair.

Thomas’s eye flutter open just long enough to watch Alexander climb on top of him, watch Alexander straddle Thomas’ lap with ease. Alexander looks down at him through loose hair and all traces of anger are gone from his face. In it’s place is half-lidded, barely contained _want_ and Thomas can’t suppress the shiver that runs down his spine.

So he leans up just far enough to meet Alexander and they’re kissing again, this time with Alexander as the ‘taller’ one and Thomas has to angle himself upwards to meet the other man. This time, when Alexander’s tongue asks for entrance, Thomas meets it in battle, fighting for his turn to explore the other man’s mouth.

And then his brain finally makes the last connection it needs to to understand that he’s _kissing Alexander Hamilton and Alexander Hamilton is kissing back._ Thomas runs his hands up the other man’s back, suddenly overtaken with the need to feel _more_. Alexander seems to understand, and he obliges Thomas’ need by grinding himself down on Thomas’ crotch.

A new round of fireworks explode in Thomas’ head and, with a growl, he gathers Alexander in his arms and stands up. Alexander doesn’t unlock their lips, just wraps his legs around Thomas’ waist as Thomas spins them around and pins Alexander against the wall.

Alexander’s hands pull at Thomas’ face as Thomas pushes them closer together. His own hands are on the underside of Alexander’s thighs, he can feel the edges of shredded fabric beneath his fingertips. Then Alexander’s hands start to trail down, running down Thomas’ neck, his chest, his stomach until Alexander’s fingers rest just above the tops of his jeans.

Thomas feels Alexander’s fingertips hop the brim, feels them side down the front of his pants and Alexander grins into Thomas’ mouth. _I’m not wearing underwear_ , Thomas realizes dizzily, like he’s some heroine of a cheap erotica. Alexander’s legs loosen just enough to give him more space to move, and his hands are getting closer to where both of them want them to be.

Alexander’s fingertips brush Thomas’ dick and it takes a very sudden interest in that happening again. Thomas ruts against Alexander’s hands, looking for more contact, more friction, _anything_. He feels Alexander laugh into the kiss, and Thomas can’t help the moan that rumbles from him when Alexander gives Thomas exactly what he’s looking for.

“Bed?” Alexander mutters, finally breaking the kiss to mouth along Thomas’ and jaw and up to his ear. Thomas nods, finally leaning away from the wall. Alexander’s hands slide out from his jeans to hold on as Thomas walks them over to one of the beds. Alexander’s hands slide in and out of his hair, around his neck and Thomas feels his teeth sink into his earlobe.

“Come on, _please,_ ” Alexander hisses. Thomas can’t deny the twinge he feels in his stomach, knows Alexander can feel his growing hardness trapped between them. Alexander pulls back, just far enough to give Thomas the biggest pair of bedroom eyes Thomas had ever seen. “I need you,” Alexander breathes, his hands tangling into fists in Thomas’s hair. Then Thomas remembers something and reaches up with one hand to tangle his fingers in Alexander’s hair and pull.

The wanton moan that escapes Alexander’s lips is enough to seal the deal and Thomas practically throws the other man onto the mattress. The shitty spring bed bounces under Alexander’s weight and Thomas takes a moment to just look at the other man. All spread out on a bed, all for him, all flushed and already panting. Thomas wants to tear the shirt off Alexander, wants to have the other man open and ready. Thomas crawls onto the bed, caging Alexander in with his own body. _Oh god,_ Thomas wants this. He wants this so bad he’s-

He stops. Alexander’s face is screwed up in what looks to be pain. His eyes are screwed shut tightly, and he’s grimacing. “Are you okay?” Thomas breathes. Alexander cracks one eye open and looks up at Thomas. His pupils are blown wide, but the fire in them has died a bit.

“Yeah, just got dizzy there for a second. Give me a moment,” Alexander says. Thomas frowns, eyebrows furrowing. _Dizzy? Why would he be dizzy? I’m a good kisser, but not that good-_

“You have a concussion,” Thomas remembers. “Oh shit, you have a concussion and you’re probably not thinking rationally.” Thomas leans back, pushes himself off the bed and away from the prone man. Alexander frowns, then picks up his head to look at Thomas.

“Uh, no? How about I just got dizzy for a second? Come over here so I can fuck you,” he says, arms reaching out for a quickly retreating Thomas.

Thomas shakes his head. “No, I… I’m not doing anything you might regret.”

Alexander’s jaw drops. “I’m not going to regret this,” he says.

“No,” Thomas insists. “Not until I’m sure you’re thinking clearly.”

“ _Thomas,_ ” Alexander whines. “Please. Don’t you want this?” Alexander sits up, motions at his body. “Don’t you want _me_?”

“More than you know,” Thomas replies, forcing himself to step backwards until his back hits the wall. He’s starting to realize what’s just happened, the consequences of their actions just starting to take hold.

“Then get back over here!” Alexander makes a grabby motion in Thomas’ direction and there’s enough of Thomas’ brain starting to panic that he doesn’t move from the spot. “Actually, grab my wallet from the table, I’ve got lube and co-”

“I said no. I don’t want to do this if in a few days you realize that this was all the concussion talking.” Thomas crosses his arms, trying to keep his expression as stern as possible and not listen to the little voice saying _if that’s the case, take him now while you can._

“It’s not,” Alexander insists. “I swear to you, this has _nothing_ to do with a possible concussion.”

Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “Want to prove it?” He asks. Alexander nods, and Thomas continues. “Accept my ‘no.’’ Alexander’s face falls, his shoulders hunch.

“Fine,” Alexander grumbles. “Kiss me again, then.”

Thomas presses his lips together in a thin line. “That’s off the table too.”

Alexander lets out a noise of frustration. “We finally go at it and you’re just going to deny me?”

“Absolutely,” Thomas says, though there is a good portion of his brain rioting at the act of cock-blocking himself. Alexander huffs, he starts to pout and Thomas can already see Alexander is trying his last backup plan to get into Thomas’ pants tonight, so Thomas speaks first. “You need to rest and heal if you want to keep going.” Alexander huffs again, much more annoyed this time, but Thomas is nothing but stubborn. “You said something about not sleeping in two days, you need to _sleep_.”

“I was out for a couple of hours,” Alexander counters.

“Because you were physically knocked out! That doesn’t count,” Thomas says. “Get some actual sleep and maybe we can try again. _Maybe_ ,” Thomas says to Alexander’s hopeful look. A second later, Alexander is already burrowing under the sheets.

“Deal,” Alexander says, burying his face into a pillow. “Turn off the lights.” Thomas rolls his eyes. _Of course the idea of sex might make him actually sleep,_ he thinks, but his stomach flutters because it’s not just sex, it’s _sex with Thomas_ that gets Alexander to actually shut his eyes. Thomas almost feels bad about using it as a reward for basic human function, but Alexander really needs it. Concussions are nothing to laugh it.

Thomas should know, he has three of them.

So Thomas dutifully turns out the light, then shuts the curtains at the window as tight as possible. The sunlight is leaking in, and Thomas needs Alexander to get as much rest as possible. Both for the man’s health, and for the part of Thomas’ brain that wants to just jump Alexander right then and there. His dick is still interested, at least.

He hears Alexander mutter something to himself about ‘just twenty minutes,’ but then Alexander is passed out. _Twenty minutes my ass,_ Thomas thinks, and settles himself into the armchair. Thomas fishes his phone out of his pocket to silence it when he sees he’s gotten a few texts.

**From: Lafayette:**

**What is going on?**

**From: James:**

**Just woke up. Where are you?**

**From: James:**

**Thomas, answer me.**

Thomas bites his lip, is about to open James’s text log when he gets another from Lafayette. Nine words that send chills down his spine 

**From: Lafayette**  

**What have you done? King is demanding your head.**

A second one comes through.

**From: Lafayette:**

**Where is Alexander?**

Thomas just holds his phone, looking at Lafayette’s messages and trying to put it together. King knows he was there. King wants him dead. Alexander too, most likely. Thomas looks up at the sleeping man. They’re being hunted now, most likely. Hunted by the most dangerous man in New York.

Thomas quickly checks his phone and finds his location services off, but it doesn’t feel like enough. So he turns it off completely, debates taking out the battery but he knows that turning it off will stop anyone from finding him. Well, they’ll know the motel location, which means they probably need to leave, and soon, but Thomas figures he has a little time before James gets worried enough to try and track his phone. If King could do it, there would already be Redcoats bursting down the door.

So Thomas sits in the dark, considering his next move. They have to leave, Thomas is sure of that. But where do they go? Go back to James and the team? _No,_ Thomas will be sent home in a heartbeat, with a protection detail to boot. And he doesn’t want to go home, now more than ever. Thomas watches Alexander’s chest rise and fall in sleep and realizes he has more than one reason to stay now.

_Alexander_. God, Thomas is so fucking screwed 

“What have I done?” Thomas breathes, whispering to the sleeping man. “What the hell have I done? I… I shouldn’t have kissed you. I take it back.” _No I don’t,_ Thomas’ heart protests. “You’re just like Booth, except I was more worried about him letting me in the door than _kissing_ him. Oh my god, I’ve gone and fucked it all up.” _No I haven’t, I’m glad it happened._ “It doesn’t matter. You don’t matter.” _Yes he does._ “You’re just a part of the job.” _He’s far from part of the job._ “We’re on opposite teams and I went and…” _kissed him_ “...ruined it.” _I love you, please stay. Oh god, please stay with me._ “I should leave, before this gets worse.” _I will never leave you._ “I can’t do this. I can’t compromise the assignment.” _Fuck the assignment. I’m just lying to myself._

Thomas drops his head in his hands. His own words sound pathetic to him. “I’m so sorry Alexander. You deserve so much better.” His hands curl against his face. “What am I to do with you?”

_You take him, and you love him._ Maria’s voice comes to Thomas. _You love him, and you love him hard and you never let him go._ You get him out of here and you find your happiness and waste your career on him because you love him.

The logical part of Thomas protests that he _can’t_ do that. That this all is too messed up to fix. But something in him knows that Thomas is too far gone to back out now. He’s already gone and fucked up his job, why not commit? _Sam and Peter will understand, surely,_ Thomas thinks. Thomas looks up from his hands, and at Alexander’s sleeping back.

And Thomas has always given into the part of him that now sounds oddly like Maria Reynolds, so why not now?

“How do I make this work now?” Thomas mutters, and starts to plan.

\--------------

When Thomas comes back to the hotel room, two bags of clothes in his hands, Alexander is awake. He’s curled up against the motel headboard, head on his knees. The bed spread is thrown onto the floor, pillows strewn across the room and Thomas cocks an eyebrow at the mess.

“There’s tossing and turning,” Thomas drawls, “but that’s just ridiculous.” Alexander’s face snaps up, his eyes widen at the sight of Thomas.

“You’re back,” Alexander says, quiet surprise in his voice. Thomas nods.

“Didn’t think you’d wake up while I was gone,” Thomas explains. “Sorry, should have left a note.” 

“Where did you go?”

“Just down the street. Tourist shop. Got us a change of clothes.” Thomas raises the bags on his arms and shakes them.

“Oh,” Alexander says, looking down in… embarrassment? Thomas doesn’t have much time to think about it before Alexander speaks again. “I don’t need new clothes.” 

“Well we can’t go back to your apartment,” Thomas says. “And you’re not walking around in bloodstained clothes.” Alexander looks down at himself, as if seeing the stains for the first time. Thomas drops Alexander’s clothes onto the bed beside him and walks over to the bathroom.

“Get changed, we have to go,” Thomas commands. Alexander nods, and by the time Thomas is changed and out of the bathroom, Alexander is ready to go as well.

“Did you try and go for non-discrete?” Alexander asks, looking down at the neon “I love New York” shirt Thomas bought him. 

“We’ll look like tourists.” Thomas settles the baseball cap on his head, trying to tame the poof of hair. It doesn’t want to comply, Thomas know this is the payback for breaking his washing routine and going for a swim in salty, polluted water. “People ignore tourists.” 

Alexander grumbles, complaining about the highlighter-yellow shirt but just grabs Maria’s hoodie. Holding it tight in his arms, Alexander looks up at Thomas. “Where are we off too?” 

\---------------- 

“Where is it?” James asks, already steeling himself for what he’s about to see. Lafayette sighs, and leads him and Sally into their office. The Frenchman is lit and filled with confused, slightly frightened faces of Sons leadership and foot soldiers alike. When they get inside, Lafayette steps to the side and points at a wrapped bundle on their desk. James shares a look with Sally before stepping up to the wooden desk. 

The dark mass on the desk is just slightly larger than a bowling ball, slightly malformed and lumpy. James takes a corner of the dark fabric- a jacket one some sort, one Lafayette has identified as belonging to Alexander Hamilton- between two fingers and starts to unwrap the lump. Slowly, reverently so as not to disturb what James knows to be inside, he reveals the gift dropped off at the Frenchman’s front doors but hours before.

A woman’s head, splattered with blood. She’s still wearing dark red lipstick and her black hair pools beneath her severed neck. The skin there is ragged, like someone took their sweet time decapitating the poor woman with some less-than-sharp tools.

“Maria Reynolds,” Lafayette says.

“And the note?” James asks, fighting down the disgust at the sight in front of him. Lafayette points to a corner of the desk where a folded piece of paper lies. James carefully unfolds and reads.

_You have three hours to deliver Alexander Hamilton and William Clark to us,_ the note reads, _or face the consequences._  

At the bottom is a little crown drawn with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially calling casualty number two: Maria Reynolds.
> 
> In other news: I wasn't exactly sure how to update the tags for this. It's kinda dub-con-ish? Not really, Alexander is super into it, but Thomas is a Worried Boy, and who can blame him? Concussions can mess with your thinking, as we've seen, and he doesn't want to fuck it all up. If a consensus thinks it needs a dub-con tag, I'll add it. It's not going up for now, I don't really think it needs it, but feel free to correct me if you think I need correcting.
> 
> (Also I thought about adding smut tags to tease y'all but I'm not that cruel. They're not needed.
> 
> Yet.)
> 
> See you Friday!


	41. The Final Puzzle Pieces Fall Into Place And It's Nothing You Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Alexander head upstate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take heed of the end note.
> 
> Tags updated, but nothing of note besides another character and a few plot details.

Alexander is silent on the trip to the subway station, walking quickly to keep up with Thomas on the sidewalk. Thomas doesn’t mind, it lets him keep every bit of focus on making sure no one is following them or looking at them oddly. They press through the people on the sidewalk, Thomas trying to keep himself as inconspicuous as possible despite his height.

Alexander has Maria’s hoodie tied around his waist, any and all bloodstains fairly well masked by the red fabric. Together, they really look just like a couple of tourists making their way down the city street. Thomas thinks he’s got a few hundred in his wallet, more than enough to get them both off the island and a hotel room for at least a night. After that… Thomas has no clue. He just needs to get them somewhere safe and then he can plan.

The crowd pulses around them, Alexander getting jostled between people due to his height. Thomas, thinking quickly, reaches out and grabs Alexander by the hand. He pulls the man closer to him, making sure Alexander keeps up and doesn’t get pushed away from the crowd. Thomas looks down, finding the shorter man’s eyes glued to the sidewalk, his other hand fiddling with the end of a hoodie sleeve.

Thomas squeezes Alexander’s hand. “It’s what she wanted,” he says. Alexander nods, mutely, squeezing back slightly. Thomas feels the warmth of the other man’s hand and a portion of his soul ascends to heaven. He doesn’t mind the second glances they start to attract now, he’s _holding Alexander Hamilton’s hand_.

Fingers intertwined, the two men make their way down the street until Thomas pulls Alexander down into a subway station. He pays for tickets in cash, forking over his only ten to a machine that spits ones back at him in change.

“I’ve never ridden in a subway before,” Thomas admits, looking to break this odd silence that’s just starting to rub against him the wrong way. “I mean, we’ve got trains in Richmond, and DC of course, but not a _subway_ subway.”

“Not much different, just underground,” Alexander says.

“Well, I assumed.” Thomas leads him, still reveling in the small contact they have, to the end of a platform.

“Then why make a big deal out of it?” Alexander asks.

“Just making conversation, seeing as you’ve gone oddly silent.” Thomas looks down at Alexander when the man just grunts in response. “Is something wrong?” he asks gently. Alexander shuffles in place.

“Maria’s dead,” Alexander says. Thomas frowns, and squeezes Alexander’s hand in what he thinks is a reassuring way. He doesn’t get to respond before the ground begins to rumble beneath his feet. A moment later, the train comes screeching into the station and stops with a rush of air.

Thomas waits for a couple of people to get off before pulling Alexander onto the last train car. It’s almost empty, just a Latino man in a seat by the end and a young woman toting a baby in her arms. Thomas gives them both a discrete once over, anyone could be a threat after all, but still sits down. This is likely the sparsest a car will be during the end of morning rush hour in New York, Thomas figures.

He sits on the padded seat and pulls Alexander into the seat next to him. Alexander goes willingly, even falling into Thomas’ side when Thomas snakes his arm around Alexander’s shoulders. The feisty man is still stone silent, but his head is resting on Thomas’ shoulder and Thomas couldn’t be more content.

He pushes away any thought that this might be a mistake and lays his cheek on Alexander’s head. He takes Alexander’s hand again, holds it against his knee and speaks. “You know, Laurens is going to get a kick out of this, if he ever finds out,” Thomas chuckles. “He accused me of being jealous of you and Eliza.”

“Were you?” Alexander asks, quietly. Thomas pauses, and thinks. In the moment of silence, he feels Alexander shift impatiently against his side.

“Yeah, I guess I was,” he admits. Alexander sighs, his hand slipping out of Thomas’. Thomas frowns, but lets it go. _He might just be uncomfortable. Weird positioning and all. You’re being paranoid Thomas,_ he admonishes himself, _he kissed you this morning, almost did more._

So Thomas tries to relax, tries not to read into how Alexander pulls away to sit up straight. He glances around the car, watches the woman bounce her child on her hip. The child coos back, a three- toothed smile breaking across it’s chubby face. Then Thomas catches the eye of the man on the other side of the car. Thomas smiles in hello, but the man’s face stays neutral, lips in a solid line.

Thomas goes back to watching the baby, the child glancing around the train in wonder. When it looks at Thomas, Thomas smiles and waves. The baby wriggles it’s fingers awkwardly in his direction, and the mother laughs.

Thomas can see the man looking at them from the corner of his vision. He’s staring at the two of them, Thomas and Alexander, silently from across the train car. Thomas feels his smile start to slip. He leans down to Alexander.

“Hey, we’re getting off at the next stop,” Thomas says. Alexander looks up at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

“I thought we were getting off further north?” Alexander asks, matching Thomas’ mutter.

“Change of plans.”

“Why?” Alexander asks. Thomas swallows.

“Don’t look, but the guy at the end of the car is staring and we can’t risk-”  Thomas cuts off as he sees Alexander’s eyes flick away. “-I said don’t look!”

But Alexander’s worried look is already breaking into one of happy recognition. Thomas watches as Alexander stands from his seat- quickly escaping from Thomas’ attempt to grab him- and crosses to the strange man.

“Manuel!” Alexander says, cheerfully. The man’s hard expression turns into a grin as he looks up at Alexander.

“Alex,” Manuel says, his voice low and deep. “I was wondering why I was here.”

“Alexander, get back over here,” Thomas breathes. Alexander and Manuel both glance over. “Our stop’s coming up,” Thomas rushes to explain, wincing. The woman gives him an odd look too, holding her child closer.

“You haven’t been by the botanica for far too long, Alexander,” Manuel says, without looking away from Thomas.

“Been awhile, hasn’t it?” Alexander says, a slight laugh in his voice. He looks between Thomas and Manuel. “Sorry.”

“You only have to apologize to yourself,” Manuel says. Thomas can hear a slight cuban accent in his voice. “Though if you came by more often, maybe they wouldn’t have had to send me to a subway to find you.”

_They_ , Thomas thinks with alarm. But Alexander just gives a bitter smile. “Things have been… crazy.” Thomas bites his lip, feeling Manuel’s eyes peering into him. “But! You should meet Thomas!” Alexander waves Thomas to come over, and Thomas hesitantly stands. The woman eyes him as he slowly picks his way across the moving car.

“Alexander...” Thomas starts when he reaches the man’s side, but Alexander waves one hand in the air.

“Stop being so worried, Thomas. This is Juan Manuel.” The seated man gives a nod. “He’s a friend.”

Thomas grits his jaw. The question _are you sure_ is just on the tip of his tongue. Alexander seems so unconcerned, so relaxed around this larger man, and Thomas wants to trust Alexander’s judgement. _Concussion_ , Thomas reminds himself, _Alexander has a concussion_.

“Good to meet you,” he says, though does not offer a handshake. Instead, he grabs Alexander by the hand. “But our stop’s in a few moments-”

“No it’s not,” Alexander interrupts. “It’s fine, Thomas.” Alexander turns to Manuel, who is simply listening. “He’s a little… on edge. Like I said, things have been crazy.”

“I saw what happened at Washington’s church,” Manuel says. “Thankfully, you all still live.” Alexander nods.

“You were right, as always. Not going to church that morning was most certainly the right choice.”

Manuel shakes his head. “No, I simply relay what they tell me. _They_ are always right.”

“ _They?_ ” Thomas asks, “Who’s _they_?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Alexander says, running his other hand up and down Thomas’ arm. “I can’t thank you enough, _padrino_ ,” Alexander says to Manuel.

“Not who you need to be thanking, Alexander,” Manuel says. “It’s Shangó you should thank.”

“I know, I know,” Alexander sighs. “I’ll be by soon, okay? I promise, I just have to go for a while.”

“Seabury?” Manuel asks. Thomas stills, but Alexander sighs.

“ _Sí padrino,_ ” he says, almost ashamedly. Thomas’ eyes narrow, looking Manuel over again, trying to find if there’s something he missed, something-

“I am not a Redcoat, if that is what you are looking for,” Manuel says and Thomas starts, looking up guiltily. “You need not be scared of me.”

“Give me one good reason to trust you,” Thomas snaps. “For all I know, you’re a random man on a subway train, and-”

“You don’t want to disappoint your brothers.”

Thomas instantly falls silent, his mouth still open. Manuel looks at him, face calm and neutral.

“Excuse me?” Thomas whispers.

“Your brothers,” Manuel repeats. “You don’t want to disappoint them.”

Thomas stares at the man, feeling Alexander’s eyes on him, unable to comprehend what just happened. “How do you know about Sam and Peter?” Thomas asks, feeling ice start to form in his voice. He feels Alexander squeeze his hand tight.

“They told me, more or less. I did not know their names or why you feel it is so important to keep them happy, but they told me it was so.” Manuel says. “I insist, you need not be afraid of me.”

“You and this mysterious ‘they’ you’ve got going on,” Thomas grumbles. Alexander frowns, taking his hand out of Thomas’ to swat him on the arm.

“Show some respect, Thomas,” Alexander mumbles. Thomas growls deep in his throat.

“Sorry I’m looking out for us! Maybe if I knew what the hell you two were talking about, how this _stranger_ knows about my brothers-”

“You would not understand,” Manuel interrupts. Thomas turns on him, feeling the anxiety turn to anger.

“Try me,” Thomas says, hands clenching. Manuel considers Thomas for a moment, head tilted. 

“The warrior is within you,” Manuel says. “It makes sense you would be by Alex’s side.”

Thomas inhales sharply, jaw setting sharply. “That didn’t tell me anything.”

“Let it go Thomas,” Alexander says. “This isn’t for you.”

Thomas glares down at Alexander sharply. “If it’s got something to do with you, I should know!” Alexander scowls back and goes to speak, but stops short. Thomas feels a hand close around his, and looks down to find Manuel gripping both his hand and Alexander’s hand.

“You two were meant for one another, do not doubt that,” Manuel says. He pulls Thomas’ hand closer to Alexander’s, forces Thomas’ larger hand to cover Alexander’s. “All you need to know, Thomas, is that you are meant to be by Alex’s side. There are forces watching over you and will protect you the best they can.”

“What-”

“You hold to your Christian God, but Elegguá walks with you still,” Manuel says.

Thomas hears Alexander gasp. Thomas takes a breath, gripping Alexander’s hand as Manuel pulls away. “Who the hell is this ‘El-egg-wa’-”

“Elegguá,” Alexander corrects.

“Yeah, them, whoever,” Thomas grumbles. Instantly, he’s leveled with matching glares from both Alexander and Manuel, and he feels himself shrink under them. It suddenly hits Thomas that he’s talking about something very important to these two men that he really has _no_ idea about.  “Sorry. _Elegguá,_ right?” Alexander nods.

“You are bound to one another,” Manuel says. “You _must_ stay together if you wish to make it out of this city alive.” Alexander grips Thomas’ hand harder. “I have seen two of the same heart before, and your bond as such is near unbreakable. One of you shall save the other, they tell me. They also say that others conspire to rip you two apart. There is a darkness and an evil that follows you, and should they succeed there will be no escaping it.” 

Thomas glances at Alexander, who is looking at Manuel with wide eyes. “So what do we do _padrino_?” Alexander says. Manuel offers a bitter smile.

“I’m just the messenger Alex, you know this. They sent me here to this train car to tell you these things and that is all. Though-” Manuel’s eyes twinkle in the dim lighting of the train, “-I’d stick by this boy of yours if I were you.”

Alexander opens his mouth to speak just as the train car starts to slow. It rocks to a stop, both Thomas and Alexander grabbing for metal poles to stay upright. The moment the doors slide open, Manuel stands.

“This is my stop,” he says. “Blessings on the both of you.” With that, Manuel steps out of the train car. Thomas watches as the doors swish shut behind the man, grateful that no one enters in place of him. He looks down at Alexander, sees the way something glitters in the man’s eyes.

“Do you want to tell me who that was and what he was talking about?” Thomas asks. Alexander glances up, and then back down at their conjoined hands. Alexander tears his hand away from their shared grip and hold onto the pole as the train starts to move again.

“Juan Manuel is a _santero_ ,” Alexander says. “A priest of Santeria. He acts as a messenger from the _Orishas_.” Alexander looks up, must see the confusion on Thomas’ face, because he explains. “Gods, you would say.”

“Oh?” Thomas says, suddenly even more uneasy than he had been before.

“I told you, our conversation wasn’t for you,” Alexander says, though there’s no hint of malice in his hard words. “You’re Christian, which is fine, whatever. But I’m not.”

“And that… Elegguá, they’re one of your gods?”

“ _Orishas_ , yes.” Alexander watches the walls of the tunnels scream by the train windows. “He seems to think Elegguá is with you for some reason.”

“With me?” Thomas asks incredulously.

“All Santeria practitioners have their saints, mine is a guy named Shangó. It’s not really my place to question _why_ he thought a Catholic guy has a saint-”

“I’m Episcopalian, not Catholic.”

“Why an _Episcopalian_ guy has a saint, then.”

“What’s all that about a bond?”

Alexander pauses. “...I’m not sure. There’s an old story about Shangó and Elegguá being from the same heart.”

Thomas chocks an eyebrow. “And you actually buy all this shit?”

Alexander’s face falls into a scowl. “I _believe_. Not much different from you and Jesus.”

“You actually have bought into it.” Thomas says. Alexander just shakes his head.

“Look, there’s… feelings and... “ Alexander huffs. “I’m not good at explaining this kind of stuff and you think we’re crazy anyway. I can see it on your face.” Alexander glances away, and when Thomas follows his eyes the woman with the baby is eyeing them nervously from the corner. “I told you, it’s not for you, now drop it.”

Thomas eyes Alexander, watching the side of his face as Alexander affixes his eyes to the dark windows of the train. His brain struggles to parse out any sense to what just happened, to try and comprehend any of what Juan Manuel said. _You are mean to be by Alex’s side,_ the words echo in Thomas’ head. _There is a darkness and evil that follow you…_

_What does he know_? Thomas asks himself. _Some weird man from some hackneyed voodoo religion. What a wackjob, can’t believe Alexander would fall for something like that._ Thomas can almost picture it; a poor, orphaned, _young_ Alexander without faith getting swept up in the first gimmick that came along promising salvation.

Then Thomas thinks about what he’d said about Sam and Peter, how Manuel had _known_ somehow. And Alexander truly seemed to believe it too, he’d seen how Alexander had held onto Manuel’s every word. _If it gives Alexander some hope, why not just leave it be?_

_Well, he’s got one thing right at least,_ Thomas thinks, _I’m not leaving Alexander’s side ever again_.

\---------------

The train pulls into the station Thomas had originally wanted to get off at and Alexander follows him up onto the sidewalk. They wait for a bus, Thomas gripping tightly to Alexander’s hand. Alexander keeps looking down at where their fingers are intertwined, an almost sad look in his eyes.

Before Thomas can ask what the matter is, the bus arrives and they have to board and suddenly they’re surrounded by two dozen strangers and Thomas is back on high alert. Alexander drops their hands when a lady jostles past them roughly. A kid with a bright red jacket gives Thomas heart palpitations before he sees the grey “O” and the buckeye leaves around it.

_Fucking Ohio State fans are going to give me a heart attack_ , Thomas thinks, glaring daggers at the back of the kid’s head. “Someone ought to tell that kid that shade of red’s not safe to wear in the city,” Thomas mumbles to Alexander, who snorts.

“It’s a football jacket,” Alexander says.

“Still,” Thomas replies, going back to searching the crowd. There’s a few people he can’t quite see fully tucked into the corners, and the guy in the back that he can’t even get a glimpse of puts him on edge, but Thomas is willing to bet that the bus is safe.

It feels like a miracle that both the subway and the bus have been Redcoat free. Hell, that they’ve even been Sons free. Thomas knows that when people try to run, it rarely goes this smoothly for them- he’s seen the carnage from when it goes to shit- and he can’t believe their luck.

Thomas watches the world pass by the bus window, looks out over the Hudson as they cross onto mainland New York. Alexander stays in the seat next to him, stiff even as Thomas reaches over to cover Alexander’s hand with his.

_I could get used to this,_ Thomas thinks, drumming his fingertips on Alexander’s palm. More than that, he realizes he never wants to let go.

“Who are Sam and Peter?” Alexander asks suddenly. Thomas starts, blinking his eyes back into focus from where he’d been day dreaming out the window. “I figure they’re your brothers, but why are they so important?”

“Isn’t family enough of an answer?” Thomas replies. Alexander frowns up at him, and Thomas sighs. “They’re dead,” he admits. He feels Alexander’s hand clench beneath his, can feel Alexander’s eyes on his face.

“Why don’t you want to disappoint them, then?” Alexander asks. Thomas grits his jaw, pauses for a moment, thinks about if he _really_ wants to tell this story now. _Fuck it,_ he decides.

“I had nine siblings growing up,” Thomas starts. “I was the third oldest and the oldest boy. Every year before school started Mom would take all of us kids school shopping together. I was fourteen years old, just going into my freshman year of high school. The entire Jefferson clan was at this mall and mom got all the boys done first, and the deal was that when you got finished with school shopping you got to pick out one thing for yourself. Peter was nine and Sam was seven, so they wanted to go to the toy store so Mom handed me the little baby Randy and told me to watch them while she shopped for the girls.

“I’m trying to watch all three of my younger brothers and Randy, he was only three, kept trying to wander off and play with the train set the store had out. I turned my back for _two seconds_ to make sure Randy didn’t choke on anything and…” Thomas trails, one hand waving in front of his face vaguely. “Poof. Both of them, just _gone_. I searched for twenty minutes before calling Mom. She went fucking hysterical. My oldest sister called security and the cops but there was nothing. No trace, no hide nor hair of them.”

Thomas pauses, feeling the lump start to rise in his throat. “They found Peter’s body in a stream a few miles away from the mall about a week later, whoever took him must not have known about his peanut allergy. Never found Sam. But one morning my mom woke up with tears streaming down her face and she said she knew Sam was dead so we just kinda… went with it. Mom blamed herself, Dad blamed me, I… well goddamn if I didn’t stay up every night for a year trying to figure out what I could have done differently.

“They’re the reason I went into police work. I promised Sam and Peter I’d help kids like them. I wanted to do missing children, but Steuben convinced me to do gang work instead. Said I was more likely to help kids from disappearing in the first place if I took down the guys who would make kids disappear before they did it. I mean, with that logic I should have gone into trafficking but…” Thomas sighs.

“Look where you are now,” Alexander says, reading Thomas’ mind. Thomas just nods, chewing on his lip.

“Here I am,” Thomas repeats. He squeezes Alexander’s hand. _Here I am_. He looks out over the passing water, watches the horizon disappear behind buildings as they hit land again. Alexander pulls his hand away to readjust his ponytail and then slips his hands between his legs.

_Here I am. Better not regret it_

\---------------

“You’ve disposed of the traitor?” George asks, his voice like ice in the still hospital room. Nothing about Sam’s condition has changed in the hours that he’s been hooked up to these damned machines. The doctors say that it’s good that he’s stable. Recovery only starts when you’re stable.

George would like it better if Sam was awake. So he sits here, waiting for Sammy to open his eyes. He won't let anyone take Sam away from him until he's awake, not even for whatever shit the doctors want him for.

“Yes, sir,” Reynolds says. He still is the only one George has allowed in besides the regular doctor and nurse visits. If Reynolds is upset at the death of his bitch, nothing in his voice betrays it.

“They’re running out of time,” George observes. Reynolds grunts an affirmative. George listens to the clock on the wall tick and glances over; the Sons have just about an hour left before George turns his men loose on the streets of Manhattan.

Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson _will_ pay, and if the city has to bleed first, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story Notes:
> 
> Santeria is a real religion originating from Africa, but many Hispanic people and people from the Caribbean also practice it. It's fairly unknown, but popular in cities like New York and LA. The basis of their religion revolves around a pantheon of gods/spirits called Oshiras, and it is believed all that people have an Oshira guiding them. Every Oshira has their own domains, personalities, histories and pathways, which are like variations on the same Oshira. Shangò (alternatively spelled Chango/Changò) and Elegguá are two of the Oshiras. A large part of the Santeria faith is centered on who your saint is. Santeros are basically priests, and it is believed that the Oshiras can and will speak to/through them as they see fit. Many operate from their own homes, though some run what are known as botanicas and practice through there.
> 
> Santeria is not the same as Voodoo, nor is it is a sham. Though I do not practice it (or any religion for that matter), Santeria is a source of comfort, guidance and community for practitioners like any other religion. It deserves the same respect and reverence as any other formalized religion. Again, I do not practice, but I have done much research. The idea of including Santeria as Alexander's religion came from someone well versed in Santeria. All of what I write in relationship to Santeria is run by her, and though I understand that not one person is the end authority on something so culturally large as a religion, it is the best I can do at the moment and we are both confident in the portrayal. 
> 
> If you practice Santeria yourself and find fault in how it is written, please please contact me. I want this to be as accurate as possible.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Juan Manuel de Cagigal y Monserrat was born in Cuba. A military officer in the Spanish army, Cagigal was second in command to Don Bernardo de Galvez - who had been the Spanish governer of Louisiana - who lead Spanish troops against the British along the Gulf coast. Cagigal was a commanding officer in the Battle of Pensacola, fighting the British away in 1781, and winning West Florida as well as a few islands in the Gulf of Mexico and quite a few supplies and weapons for the Continental Army. Cagigal was made captain general and governor of Cuba, and during the final press of the war he lead a social movement among Cuban elite to help fund Washington's army. Money raised by selling Cuban jewelry went directly to arming and supplying troops for the Battle of Yorktown. Eventually, he was sent to Venezuela for a short stint before retiring in the early 1800's.
> 
> Peter Jefferson Jr. was born in 1748 but died later that same year. The Jeffersons had another son in 1750, but he died either at birth or just after it, as he was left unnamed. This second son I named Sam. The only other son of the Jefferson family to survive until adulthood was Randolph, who lived to be sixty years old. Thomas was the eldest son, and with the exception of Randolph, had nothing but sisters - six of them. In order, his siblings were Jane, Mary, (Thomas), Elizabeth, Martha, Peter, The unnamed son, Lucy, Anna, and Randolph. Jefferson survived all his siblings by almost ten years.
> 
> Thanks for putting up with this long-ass author' note!
> 
> See you Friday!


	42. Thomas Is A Melodramatic Shit But It Gets The Job Done For Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll are about to lose your goddamned shit I can't wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOO BOYYYO
> 
> Tags Updated: All of those wonderful, smut related tags that just popped up.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter does contain some serious, on-screen smut. If you would like to skip it and and still read the plot related parts, I'd suggest reading up to "Alexander's eyes search his for an impossibly long heartbeat, and then Alexander closes the distance" stopping and then picking back up with "Thomas puts his head on Alexander's chest, listening to the other man's heartbeat." You really can skip the whole smut scene and not get any plot. It exists solely to help understand Thomas and Alexander as a romantic/physical couple but again, not needed.
> 
> Also, this chapter includes some homophobic language and guns.

“One or two beds?” Asks the woman at the country hotel. It’s nicer than the motel in the city but not by much; It’s got a pool in the back. It’s surrounded by hills and a small town, they had to transfer busses twice to get here, the last one had been nearly empty and they’d watched the farmland go by in silence, Thomas tucked against Alexander’s side until the smaller man had shrugged Thomas away.

“One,” Thomas answers, digging into his wallet for his stack of bills. Thomas had made sure to make up a fake name and now pays in cash. Thomas knows what he’s doing, knows how to move untraceably.

At least he thinks he does. And it’s not like he can check in with James or ask advice. They’re on their own for now. _I’ll call James tomorrow,_ Thomas promises himself. _When I’m sure we’re okay up here._

As he fishes the hundreds from his wallet, he senses more than sees Alexander stiffen beside him. Thomas glances over to see the shorter man, fists clenched and glaring at a spot on the wall beside the receptionist’s head.

“Two, please, actually,” Alexander says, his voice oddly neutral. Thomas stops, looking down at his companion. For the first time, Thomas realizes how strange Alexander has been acting all day- silent and touch-adverse. But he doesn’t correct Alexander or the receptionist as she makes the appropriate changes and tells Thomas his total for the night. Thomas forks over the cash and gets a set of key cards and a room number in return 

“Why this place?” Alexander asks, eyeing the tacky pattern on the hallway carpet.

“James picked it,” Thomas lies. The truth of the matter being he had just waited until they found the smallest town they could find that still had a half-decent hotel. A Holiday Inn might not have been Thomas’ first choice, but it served its purpose.

Alexander swipes them into their room, opens the door and they plod their way inside. Now that Thomas is a few steps away from a bed and relatively safe, the exhaustion finally starts to catch up to him. The two twin mattresses look like an oasis in a desert and Thomas wants nothing but to sleep for days on end. He can’t remember the last time he got a decent night’s sleep. Thomas practically collapses on the nearest one, feeling his body sink into the cheap springs.

“I’m gonna nap,” Thomas announces. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Alexander hums a quiet acknowledgement, and Thomas hears him shuffle a bit. Thomas picks up his head to find Alexander just standing in the middle of the room, looking at Thomas with the same emptiness he’d been wearing all day. “Hey, you okay?” Thomas asks.

Alexander starts, but nods. Thomas stifles a sigh and sits up to face Alexander, legs hanging over the edge of the bed. “Alexander…” he warns. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” Alexander says. Thomas just frowns, but if there’s one thing he knows about Alexander is that the man is stubborn to a fault.

“Come here,” Thomas says, holding out his arms towards the other man. Alexander hesitates, but crosses the room to Thomas. He flinches when Thomas puts his hands on Alexander’s face and leans in close. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Alexander doesn’t even look at Thomas when he nods. Thomas can’t fight the churning in his stomach- _something is wrong_ \- so he does the one thing he thinks might get Alexander to open up. Thomas leans down and plants a short kiss onto Alexander’s forehead. When the man squirms in his hold Thomas leans down even further and tries to connect their lips.

But then Alexander pulls away, breaks out of Thomas’ hold and steps out of reach. Thomas is left holding thin air as Alexander takes a breath.

“You don’t have to do that,” Alexander says, calm as can be. Thomas blinks, confused.

“I don’t _have_ to, but I want to,” Thomas says. Alexander folds his arms over his stomach and holds himself still.

“No you don’t, and that’s fine.” Alexander keeps his eyes glued to the ground as he speaks, his voice steady and even. “No need to play tricks on me.”

“Tricks?” Thomas asks. All traces of his exhaustion are gone, replaced with concern and confusion. Alexander just nods.

“Yeah, tricks. Like the one you pulled at the motel?” Alexander hunches in on himself as he speaks. “You agents are trained pretty good to prey on weakness. I didn’t know how well until you…” Alexander trails, swallows and keeps going, “Must have been quite hard for you. When did you figure it out, huh? That… that _kissing_ me would get me to stay?”

Thomas’ brow furrows. “What the hell are you talking about, Alexander?”

“I heard you. This morning?” Alexander says. “But I get it. I’m just a part of the job.”

Thomas’ body goes cold. He feels his heart drop and it all comes together. Alexander hadn’t been asleep this morning. He’d been distant and silent all day. _He’d heard_. But the other man is still talking. “That’s fine. But you don’t have to keep pretending to get me to do what you want. All you gotta do is ask, okay? You don’t have to placate me.” Thomas swears he can hear Alexander’s voice start to waver. “I’ll be good and do what you want. Just tell me what you need me to do and I’m your man. But you don’t have to pretend that you like me.”

Thomas is speechless. Silence stretches out between them until Thomas somehow finds his voice again. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, oddly calm for the storm of guilt brewing inside. “I’m not pretending.”

Alexander’s eyes snap up for just a moment. “Please don’t say that.”

“I’m _not_ pretending, Alexander.”

“Stop, you can’t imagine how much that hurts to hear.”

“ _Alexander._ ” Thomas stands from the bed and takes a step forward. Alexander steps back and Thomas feels his heart fragment a little more. _You did this,_ his brain says, _you did this to him_. “I didn’t mean any of what I said.”

Alexander scowls. “Stop fucking lying, I’m not an idiot.”

Thomas feels his very stomach lurch. _You caused this you goddamned idiot_ , Thomas thinks. _This is all your fault_. “I only said all that because I… damn it Alex,” Thomas growls, taking a step forward. “I’m a fucking cop, I was _scared_ , okay? This- _you_ weren’t supposed to happen but it did and now here I am, because I-” Thomas cuts himself off.

“Because you what?” Alexander hisses. “Because you didn’t think you’d have to play me _this much_? Well, you don’t. So stop this charade of yours. You hate me, that’s fine. I get it. So leave it alone.”

Alexander keeps backing away from Thomas, one step at a time. Thomas shakes his head. “What can I say to get you to believe me? I didn’t mean anything I said, I _swear_ to you.” Alexander’s back hits the wall of the room and Thomas just follows, pinning him into a corner.

“Bullshit,” Alexander spits, the fire finally returning to the man’s eyes. “You don’t want me.” Thomas wants to scream, wants to kiss Alexander until Alexander finally believes him.

“I do _not_ regret kissing you, _do not_ think you’re just part of the job, and _I_ _absolutely want you_.”

Alexander’s eyes narrow, looking up at where Thomas is looming over him. “Stop lying or I’m walking out right now. I will leave and I won’t come back.”

Thomas’ heart stops, but Alexander keeps going. “I said I’d listen to you, but only if you _stop doing this_.” Alexander shoves Thomas on the chest, but Thomas doesn’t even sway. There’s a moment as Alexander waits for Thomas to speak, to move, to do _anything_. Thomas’ mind casts about for something to convince Alexander.

Finally he steps back, and Alexander glares at him as he reaches behind him and under his shirt. “Well then, there’s only one thing to do, then,” Thomas says. “Since I’m telling the truth, and you seem to want to leave, I just have one request first.” Alexander watches him warily as Thomas pulls out his gun and offers it to Alexander.

“Shoot be before you leave,” Thomas says, his voice even and calm. Alexander’s eyes widen in shock. “I meant what I said when I said I can’t bear to lose you. So, if you want to walk out that door, kill me first.”

“Thomas,” Alexander starts, but Thomas just pushes the handle of the gun at his chest.

“I’d rather die than lose you, okay?” Thomas admits. “Please. You’re the only one who can do this for me, the only one with the _right_ to, because goddamn it Alexander, I’m yours. I’m yours, I swear to God I’m yours and yours alone.” And Thomas knows it to be the truth, in deepest part of his soul, he knows it’s the truth.

Alexander stares, dumbfounded, at the gun in Thomas’ hands. Thomas uses his free hand to take Alexander’s and wrap it around the grip. Alexander’s hands are pliant as Thomas arranges them in the proper grip and aims the barrel right at the center of his chest.

“You might not believe me,” Thomas says, his voice finally starting to crack a little.”But I can’t- don’t- I _won’t_ live in a world where you’re not with me. You are the only thing that matters to me right now and if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. I just ask you not to make me watch you do it. I can’t watch you walk out of my life for good.”

Thomas looks down at the man he loves, sees the way Alexander is looking at him in pure shock and disbelief. _Guess this is it, then_ , he thinks. And for the first time, Thomas is okay with the concept of death. “If you’re going to do it, do it fast? Please? I’d rather not bleed out, if it’s all the same to you.”

And with that, Thomas takes one last look at Alexander- wants it to be the last thing he sees- and shuts his eyes. He takes one last breath and braces for it. James once said getting shot felt like getting hit with a sledgehammer swung by The Hulk himself, and Thomas wonders briefly if he’ll even be alive long enough to be able to see if James’ description was accurate.

Instead of the earth-shattering sound of a gunshot, Thomas hears a soft _thud_ instead and he cracks his eyes open to see that Alexander’s dropped the gun on the ground. Alexander is just staring at him, expression almost unreadable because how how quickly emotions flash across it. Thomas’ heart leaps- _he’s not dead, Alexander is still here-_ and his mouth starts working again.

“Alexander, I need you. _Please_ ,” Thomas pleads, holding his arms out towards Alexander. Alexander wavers, his eyes red and hesitant. Thomas’s arms lower, his shoulders droop. 

Thomas looks down at Alexander. “I… I don’t know how else to prove it,” he says. Alexander swallows, reaches up, curls his hands into Thomas’ shirt. He tugs on Thomas and Thomas lets himself get pulled. He dips down, as if to kiss the other man, but stops. They’re a hairsbreadth apart and Thomas waits. He has to know, has to be _sure_ Alexander is okay with this.

But Alexander doesn’t move. Thomas’ breath shudders as he looks at the other man. “Please,” he says. Alexander’s eyes search his for an impossibly long heartbeat, and then Alexander closes the distance.

This kiss is different than the other two they’ve shared, but no less powerful. This one is not soft like the first one or all lust like the second. This one is all passion and Thomas pours everything he’s got into it. And Alexander matches him, hands tangled in Thomas’ hair. Alexander rolls his hips into Thomas and warmth blossoms in Thomas’ chest.

Thomas runs his hands down to Alexander’s legs and lifts him up. Alexander responds by wrapping his legs around Thomas. _Attempt number two,_ Thomas thinks, backing away from the wall and turning them around. Alexander doesn’t stop kissing him, not until Thomas props one knee onto the bed and slowly lays Alexander down onto his back.

Thomas pulls away and for a moment, just looks at him. Looks at those huge brown eyes that pulled Thomas in to begin with, and sees the way Alexander’s pupils are blown wide. Then, his body draped over the shorter man, Thomas starts to run his hands up and under Alexander’s shirt. Soft skin and bony edges meet his fingertips as Thomas reconnects their lips. Alexander whines into Thomas’ mouth as Thomas explores his chest and stomach blindly.

Their kiss deepens, Alexander nipping at Thomas’ lip and slipping his tongue into Thomas’ mouth. Alexander tugs at the hem of Thomas’ shirt, pushing it up and Thomas sits up, straddling the other man, to help pull it off. When it’s on the floor, Thomas catches a glimpse of Alexander’s eyes roaming up and down his body. Almost in awe, Alexander reaches out and runs calloused fingertips across Thomas’ abs.

“Holy shit,” Alexander breathes, and Thomas can’t help but feel a swell of pride. That’s _his_ body that’s making Alexander's pants tent and tighten beneath Thomas. And then Alexander is squirming beneath him, fighting to tear his shirt off as fast as possible and Thomas thinks he’s going to rip it for a second. But then it’s off and joins Thomas’ on the floor and Thomas feels his own breath catch.

“You’re beautiful,” Thomas says, the words slipping out beyond Thomas’ control. A blush rises to Alexander’s face and Thomas repeats: “I mean it, you are.” Thomas leans back down, presses his lips to Alexander’s quickly. “Gorgeous-” a kiss to Alexander’s cheek. “-handsome-” a series down his jawline “-stunning-” nips Alexander’s earlobe gently, more of a tease between his teeth “- _exquisite_.”

And Thomas means it. Alexander might be almost worryingly small, but Thomas can’t help but love the way his body feels under him. Thomas cards his hands through Alexander’s hair, twists a lock around a finger and pulls. Alexander’s whole body shudders and the sound that comes out of his mouth sounds like music to Thomas.

Thomas starts to work his way downwards, trailing kisses along Alexander’s jaw and neck, feeling the man’s rough hands feel their way around Thomas’ chest and abs. Thomas finds that little spot where Alexander’s neck meets his shoulder and bites down. Alexander’s hips rut up into his and Thomas pushes back, body seeking friction on it’s own desire.

And that’s how they stay for a moment; grinding uselessly against each other, still in their jeans and Thomas can’t help but think _what a shame_. So he catches Alexander in another kiss while his hands travel to the clasp on Alexander’s jeans. Blindly, he fiddles with the button until he feels it release under his hands.

Thomas finally breaks the kiss and starts to scoot backwards and off the bed, trailing kisses down Alexander’s chest and stomach as he goes. When he reaches where Alexander’s skin disappears below his beltline, Thomas pulls back so he can watch what he’s doing as he hooks his fingers into Alexander’s jeans. He can feel his hands shaking as he starts to slide them down and off. This has to be perfect, _Thomas_ has to be perfect-

“Woah, hold on,” Alexander says. Thomas freezes as Alexander sits up and looks down at where Thomas is kneeling in front of his crotch.

“What?” Thomas asks.

“What are you doing?” Alexander asks. Thomas blinks.

“Getting ready to suck your dick, what does it look like?” Thomas asks, tugging on Alexander’s jeans. Thomas can see where Alexander’s boxers poke through the top of the waistband. Alexander’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Are you serious?” He asks. Thomas nods, and- moving as if he’s still not sure this is happening- Alexander lifts his hips off the bed so Thomas can pull his jeans all the way down. Thomas grins when he sees the obvious bulge in Alexander’ boxers. He leans down, mouths Alexander’s cock through the fabric and revels in the moan that tumbles from Alexander’s lips.

Thomas himself can’t wait any longer- can’t imagine what Alexander is feeling- and pulls Alexander’s boxers down in one fluid movement. Alexander’s dick springs free, almost fully hard, and Thomas licks his lips.

“Even your dick is pretty,” Thomas says and, before Alexander can respond, Thomas wraps his lips around the head. Instantly, Alexander’s hand is in his hair, gripping hard at the curls at the base of Thomas’ neck. Thomas grins- as best he can with a cock in his mouth- and presses his tongue to the slit and is further rewarded by more wonderful noises spilling from Alexander’s mouth.

“Thomas, _please_ ,” Alexander says, and Thomas is happy to oblige, sinking down as far as he can go, relaxing his jaw and getting a little further. He’s a little proud of himself when his nose hits the soft skin of Alexander’s stomach, he hasn’t done this in such a long while. He swallows the best he can around Alexander, then has to pull back slightly to breathe better.

Thomas runs his tongue along the underside of Alexander’s cock, the salty taste of pre-come flooding his mouth. He hums around Alexander, planting his hands on Alexander’s hip to hold him in place. Thomas finds himself on his knees for Alexander, and there’s no place he’d rather be. Alexander is wonderful, even from down here, wonderful and perfect and _his_.

And Alexander is so _loud_. Because of course he is. A stream of half-formed words and profanities spill from his mouth, broken up only by moans and whimpers. And when Thomas reaches up and fondles the other man's balls, Alexander almosts _shouts_ at the contact.

With one hand braced against his hip, Thomas can feel where Alexander trembles under his fingers. He's holding himself back from thrusting, from fucking Thomas’ mouth. Alexander’s grip on his hair edges on painful as Thomas bobs his head back and forth. He almost considers telling Alexander to go for it, but this is about Alex. This is Thomas _proving_ how he feels. Finishing in his mouth isn’t enough.

“Thomas- oh god,” Alexander rambles. “I'm gonna-” Thomas feels Alexander’s hands tighten even further and once again, he almost lets Alexander have it. He almost gives in to the sudden desire to see how Alexander tastes, but he pushes away. He comes off Alexander’s cock with an obscene _pop_ , relishes in the way that Alexander whines at the loss of contact.

“Uh uh,” Thomas tisks. Alexander is still holding onto his head, keeping Thomas trapped there but Thomas doesn't give in. He plants short kisses to the inside of Alexander’s thighs, nibbling along what bandage-free skin he can reach before a well-placed bite makes Alexander yelp and his grip loosen. The moment he's free, Thomas surges upward to catch Alexander in a kiss. Alexander ruts against him, looking for release Thomas doesn't want to give him yet.

And then, though it's the hardest thing Thomas has ever done, he rolls off Alexander and stands. He’s still in his jeans and Alexander's pants are pooled around his ankles. “Condoms?” Thomas asks, throat scratchy, and Alexander nods.

“In my wallet,” he says, already halfway wrecked. Alexander kicks off his pants and searches his pockets as Thomas takes the opportunity to shed himself of his remaining clothing.

His dollar-store underwear hits the floor and Alexander looks up. In his hands are white and silver packets, and Thomas spares a thought thanking everything in existence that Alexander is the type to carry lube. Alexander, wide-eyed, scans Thomas’ body with fervor, and Thomas can tell where Alexander's gaze gets caught.

“Uh,” Alexander swallows. “Fuck.” Thomas smirks, he knows he’s packing. Alexander glances down at the wrappers in his hands, opens his mouth to speak but Thomas is already back on him. He presses a quick kiss to Alexander’s lips, and then flips them around so Alexander is looking down at him.

“Try not to waste any lube,” Thomas warns. There’s a questioning, confused look on Alexander’s face as Thomas willingly turns onto his stomach.

“Wait, really?” Alexander says, and Thomas nods.

“Come on,” he says, pushing his ass up as far as he can. There’s a moment where Alexander fights with the travel packets of lube, and Thomas grips the sheets in anticipation. He tries to remember when exactly the last time he did this, but his train of thought is cut off when a slick digit is pressed to his entrance.

“Ready?” Alexander breathes. Thomas takes a breath, nods.

“Yeah,” and then Alexander’s finger is pressing into him and any other word dies in his throat. _Breathe_ , he reminds himself, and tries to relax around the intrusion. Alexander’s fingers are slim, but longer than Thomas thought and when Alexander sinks all the way down to his knuckle he’s much deeper than Thomas expected.

And when Alexander starts to move it, thrusting in and out, swirling slightly, Thomas feels the burn and stretch. And then, just as Alexander starts to push in a second finger, the first one brushes against that spot inside him that makes him see stars.

The guttural sounds that rips itself from Thomas’ throat must be enough to tell Alexander that he's found it, because the other man chuckles slightly. When the second finger is inside him, Thomas feels them crook and rub against his prostate. Thomas’s legs tremble and he can't stop himself from pressing back against Alexander’s fingers.

“Oh, you like that?” Alexander teases. Thomas can't do anything but nod as two fingers turn into three. Oh god, he wants more, _needs_ more. The pain melts into pleasure as Alexander spreads his fingers and stretches out his ass. Another set of calloused fingertips run up and down Thomas’s back, feeling along every inch of skin.

And then Alexander’s fingers slip free and Thomas whines at the loss. The crinkling sound of Alexander ripping open the condom reminds Thomas what he’s supposed to be doing. He wriggles around and grabs Alexander by the shoulders, pushing Alexander down into the bed and sitting over his thighs.

Thomas snatches the condom from Alexander’s hand, Alexander just looking bewilderingly up at him. Not for the first time, Thomas is reminded of how beautiful the man beneath him is. Even sweat-slick, with half-healed wounds littering his body, Alexander is the most gorgeous man he's ever seen. How could Thomas ever have considered passing him up?

Alexander’s breath hitches when Thomas teases him with light fingers. Satisfaction blooms when Alexander wriggles under his hand, searching for more contact. But then Thomas is rolling the condom down Alexander’s shaft and searching the sheets with his free hand for any lube Alexander hadn't used yet.

“Are- _nggggh_ ,” Alexander groans with an expert twist of Thomas’s wrist. Thomas’s fingers close around an unopened packet and tears it open with his teeth. He takes his hands off Alexander long enough to spread warm lube onto his hand, but when he reaches back down to finish prepping Alexander, the other man grabs his wrist.

“Are you _sure_?” Alexander says. “That this is what you want?” Thomas stops, looks down at Alexander and he thinks _god, I have never wanted anything more_.

Thomas nods, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, I’m yours,” he breathes. “Let me do this, I _need_ this.” Alexander hesitates, scanning Thomas’ face, then relaxes.

“I kinda always figured I'd be- that'd we'd be in each other's position,” Alexander admits, letting go of Thomas’ wrist. Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh no, my dear Alex,” Thomas purrs, reaching down to take Alexander in hand again. “This is _definitely_ what I want.” Thomas slicks up Alexander’s dick, and when he thinks they're ready, he rises on his knees and scoots forward. “You, _in_ me.” Thomas guides Alexander to his hole and looks back down for any sign Alexander might not want this. When he finds none, he lowers himself slowly.

Alexander’s head enters him and both let out a groan. Thomas feels his jaw drop, it really has been a while, and he pauses for just a moment. But a moment later it feels right so he pushes himself farther down, feeling Alexander fill him slowly. When Thomas is fully seated, he takes a moment to adjust, both men suddenly breathing hard. Thomas can feel how hard Alexander has to hold himself back from moving.

And then Thomas plants his hands on Alexander’s shoulders and raises himself back up slowly. And like that, Thomas is riding Alexander Hamilton, Alexander’s cock sliding in and out of him so deliciously.

Thomas opens his eyes- not quite sure when he shut them- and sees Alexander’s face contorted with pleasure. “God, you're so dazzling like this,” Thomas breathes. “All worked up for me, so _amazing._ You feel so good, Alexander, oh _god,_ baby.”

Alexander just grunts in response, his hands coming up to run across Thomas’s abs, his chest, just looking for unexplored parts of Thomas’s skin. His blunt fingernails score across Thomas’ chest, Thomas feels like his skin is on fire in the trails they leave. Alexander feels across what scarring tissue across his chest isn’t covered, tracing each line, divot and mark reverently.

“You're so fucking _tight,_ ” Alexander groans, his hips twitching up to meet one of Thomas’ downward thrusts.

“You can move,” Thomas says, encouragingly. And Alexander does, instantly snapping up to thrust as deep inside Thomas as he can. Thomas lets out a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a sob as the head of Alexander’s dick drags along his prostate.

Thomas can feel himself start slipping, the aching in his thighs and the pleasure rocking through him is enough to start messing up his rhythm. Alexander takes up the slack, rolling his hips with the sound of slick skin on skin. Thomas leans down, capturing Alexander in a kiss, pushing his tongue into Alexander’s mouth.

“You're mine,” Thomas says, growling into the kiss. “Say it, you're _mine_.” Alexander’s hands dance along Thomas’ shoulders and back.

“I'm yours- _fuck yes_ -” Alexander punctuates his words with a hard thrust. “-I'm yours baby, I'm yours.” Thomas finds a spot on Alexander’s shoulder and bites down. He wants to _mark_ Alexander, wants the whole word to know who Alexander belongs to. Alexander jerks, his entire body shuddering as Thomas works to leave a bruise.

“Tell me I'm yours,” Thomas says when he finally lets go. “ _Tell me_.”

“You're mine,” Alexander says, panting. “Fuck, you're mine. All mine.” Thomas nods into Alexander’s neck.

“I'm yours,” he confirms, “yours and only yours.”

“ _Fuck,_ Thomas,” Alexander growls, and it sounds so primal Thomas heart stops. And then Alexander flips them over with a surge of power Thomas was not expecting. And with Thomas underneath him, Alexander abandons all sense of control.

And Thomas is pulled along for the ride, Alexander screwing him senseless into the mattress. Thomas throws one leg over Alexander’s shoulder and hooks the other one around Alexander’s waist. He lifts his hips just right and _there_. Thomas screams when Alexander nails his prostate straight on.

“Yes, yes, _yes,”_ Thomas cries, “Alexander, _please_.” Broken pleas tumble out of his mouth without command, and Thomas hears himself begging for _more_ , for _faster_ , for _Alexander_. Alexander, for his part, is to the point of broken moans and Thomas can feel his thrusts become irregular.

And then Alexander forces a hand between them and around Thomas. The simple contact is almost enough to send Thomas over the edge. Heats curls and builds in his belly as Alexander moves his hand up and down Thomas’ dick in time with his thrusts. Thomas loses himself in the expert way Alexander twists his wrist around the top of the shaft.

It takes Thomas an almost embarrassingly short amount of time to hit his orgasm. He feels it rush onto him and he can't even speak to warn Alexander. But Alexander must know somehow, because he starts to circle the slit with his thumb. And just like that, Thomas is gone.

Rolling waves of white-hot pleasure course through Thomas’s veins, his vision blanks as he comes all over Alexander’s hand and their stomachs. He feels himself clench down on Alexander and the other man follows Thomas off the cliff. Alexander lets out a shout, his hips stutter and slow. His thrusts turn languid as he fucks Thomas through both their orgasms.

As Thomas comes down off his high, he feels himself collapse under Alexander’s chest. His entire body goes boneless, limp against Alexander’s heaving chest. For a moment, they lie there together in a post-orgasmic haze.

“I sure hope our room neighbors were out,” Thomas jokes, voice weak and wrecked. Alexander chuckles, and Thomas can feel his chest vibrate above him. Alexander’s dick is rapidly softening in his ass and he can feel his own cum getting sticky between them. In a moment of crystal-clear thinking, Thomas realizes something:

He just got fucked by Alexander Hamilton.

Alexander slips out of Thomas, takes off the condom and ties it shut. Alexander rolls off Thomas long enough to pad to the bathroom. Thomas is left stewing in his thoughts, the reoccurring theme of which being _that probably shouldn't have happened but I don't regret a thing._

Alexander comes back with a washcloth and nudges Thomas on the shoulder. Thomas willingly lets Alexander clean him up for a moment before he gets too needy and reaches for the other man. Alexander doesn't need Thomas to speak to know what he wants. The towel disappears into the floor somewhere, and Alexander crawls into Thomas’ arms.

Thomas puts his head on Alexander’s chest, listening to the other man’s heartbeat. Alexander cards his fingers through Thomas’ hair and Thomas squeezes the other man has hard as his weak limbs will allow.

“Are you going to leave?” Thomas asks with no small amount of trepidation. Without hesitation, Alexander replies:

“No.”

“Good,” is all Thomas says, turning his head for another kiss. When he looks up at Alexander, the other man gasps.

“You're crying,” Alexander says. Thomas blinks, realizes that his face is tacky with tear tracks. He feels another tear trail out of his eyes.

“Huh, guess I am,” he says, simply. Alexander frowns, concerned.

“Are you okay?” He asks, one hand trailing down to hold Thomas’ cheek.

“Never been better,” Thomas says, leaning into the touch. Alexander’s expression softens, and kisses Thomas gently. Thomas’ heart trills, and it’s left fluttering even as they pull away. _This is where I belong,_ he thinks. _Right here, in his arms_.

Alexander pulls Thomas closer, letting Thomas use his body as a pillow. And it’s there, their bodies tangled together, that Thomas’ eyes drift close. The last thing’s he’s aware of is the steady beating of Alexander’s heart and the feeling of fingers running through his hair.

\----------------

Thomas is standing on the balcony of his childhood home. The old mansion that had been passed down for generations, a distant relative had built it on a hilltop and convinced the local government to overlook it’s existence. Empty, creaky hallways Thomas had spent his early years in sprawl behind him somewhere but the only thing that matters is the here and now.

Because Alexander is standing there with him, held in Thomas’ arms as they look over the rolling hills in front of them. A bright blue sky stretches above them, the sun gently warming their skin as they sway together. It’s almost a ten foot drop to the ground, with nothing but open grassland around them.

“We can remodel the kitchen first,” Alexander says, and Thomas hums his affirmation into Alexander’s hair. “Or maybe the bedroom?”

“Whatever you want, my darling,” Thomas replies. Alexander squirms in his arms to face Thomas.

“I can’t be the only one making the decisions here,” Alexander says, and leans up to press a kiss on Thomas’ nose. Thomas just smiles down at him.

“I’ve made plenty of decisions,” Thomas says. Alexander cocks an eyebrow.

“Like what?”

“Like…” Thomas pretends to think, head tilted to the side. “When I decided I’d do anything to make you happy.”

Alexander rolls his eyes, but snakes his arms around Thomas’ waist. “I love you,” Alexander says. Thomas shuts his eyes, relishing in the embrace. He takes a breath to respond in kind-

And Alexander is gone. Disappeared from between his arms without a trace. Thomas blinks, examining his arms like he’ll find Alexander etched into his skin. When he looks up the crystal blue sky is streaked with red, like someone has taken a paintbrush to it.

“Alexander?” Thomas calls, suddenly concerned. _This is wrong,_ he thinks. _Something is wrong._ He looks around, but the balcony is empty besides him. Thomas turns, throws open the door and peers inside the darkened hallway. Just as he steps inside, however, he hears something.

It’s a sound, just loud enough for Thomas to hear but growing louder by the second. It takes Thomas a moment to recognize it as drums; heavy drum beats from somewhere behind him. They’re far in the distance, though, and Thomas has greater concerns. Namely, Alexander.

Thomas strides down the hall, calling Alexander’s name. He tugs on the first door he comes across, a bedroom, and sticks his head inside. The room is dark, red light seeping in from the window and turning the room the same shade. “Alex?” Thomas calls, but gets no reply. So he abandons the room in favor of heading further into the house.

Thomas throws open each door he passes, getting more and frantic as his search turns up empty. The hallway stretches before him, seemingly endless and the drums behind him are getting louder. Thomas loses track of how many doors he’s passed, all that matters is finding Alexander

The red light in the sky stains the world a crimson shade, streaming in behind him and casting his shadow into the darkness ahead of him. It pulses, brighter and then dimmer again, seemingly in time with the beating of the drums.

Thomas throws open another door- another bedroom- and he plants his hand on the doorframe. The walls are shaking from the sheer power of sound. Thomas can feel it in his chest, feel his heart pound along with the beat. He turns his head to look back the way he came and-

The balcony door is but a few feet away from him, like Thomas had barely even moved down the hallway. Gone is the endless stretch of doors, the only thing ahead of him is the glass door leading outside. The blood-red light streams in through the door and Thomas wants to turn away, to run as far from it as possible. Nothing good could be outside.

Thomas tries to backpedal away but the door _follows_. He never manages to put any more distance between him and it. And still the drums get louder. Each beat washes over Thomas like a tidal wave.

With nowhere else to go, Thomas gives in and reaches for the glass door. Steeling himself for whatever may be outside, he pulls it open slowly.

The balcony is gone. In its place stretches a forest as far as Thomas can see. The sun- a dark red orb in the sky- beats down on Thomas and the entire world is stained crimson. And Thomas knows, suddenly and surely, that the drums are coming from somewhere beyond the trees.

His feet move without command, Thomas walking into the treeline and away from his home. When he glances back, he finds that he’s actually making progress unlike in the dark hallway. So he goes, picking his way between trees, through the roots and leaves, cutting his own path in place of a trail.

“Alexander?” He calls, hoping the other man will call back and they can get out of here. But when Thomas looks behind him he can’t see his home anymore, can’t tell which direction he came and where he was headed. And still the drums beat louder.

And then Thomas breaks out into a clearing in the trees, a small grove of which Thomas had no warning he was approaching. Here, finally, Thomas has found the drums.

There are so many people gathered in this small clearing, men and women alike. All are half dressed, with beaded necklaces, leather bracelets and other forms of jewelry. These people are the drummers, each with their own instrument. One of the men calls out, his voice raised in a tongue Thomas does not recognize, let alone understand. A woman responds and suddenly the whole encampment has joined in a chant.

In the center roars a great fire, and all around it people dance. The people chant, hollar, beat on their drums and Thomas is a witness to it all. No one seems to know he’s there, standing at the edge of the clearing transfixed by the sight in front of him. The music pulses through his body, his very bones rattling with each drumbeat.

And there, on the other side of the clearing, stand two men. They are without drums, one holds an oddly shaped stick in one hand. It almost looks like a scythe, but the entire thing is made of wood painted red and black. The man who wields it is also dressed in red and black, though only wears a skirt. He’s stocky and muscular, like he could tear a tree trunk in half without a second thought. His companion also wears a red skirt, but is adorned with a headpiece and many beaded necklaces draped around his neck.

Thomas starts, fear washing over him when he realizes that both of them are staring directly at him. He tries to back away, but his feet are rooted to the spot. _I shouldn’t be here,_ Thomas thinks, _this isn’t for me, I should_ not _be here_.

The man with the stick raises it to point right at Thomas. Thomas’ heart stops. He’s not supposed to be here, he needs to go. He needs to go _now_ before something happens.

“It’s coming,” the man says, staring Thomas down as if he can see right into his soul. “Be ready.”

“Where am I?” Thomas asks, trying to send his voice above the drums and the chanting. “Where’s Alex?”

“Do not be afraid,” the man says. “I will guide you.” The man does not shout, but Thomas can hear him clearly through the noise. “But you have to be ready.”

Thomas blinks. “Be ready? For what?” He asks. The man just stares back at him.

“Be ready,” he says again. The drumming gets louder, it’s almost deafening now.

“For _what_?’ Thomas asks again. But the man does not respond. Both figures glare at him from across the clearing and suddenly Thomas can move again. He stumbles backwards, bumping into a tree blindly in his haste to get away.

“Alexander?!” He calls. Alexander will know what’s happening. Thomas needs to find him, needs him more than anything he’s ever needed before. “ _Alexander-”_

\-----------------

Thomas’ eyes fly open, his jaw automatically clamping down on any sound he might make. He can almost still hear the pounding of drums-

Or is that just Alexander’s heartbeat? Thomas’ face is still pressed against the man’s chest, they haven’t moved much in their sleep. Moonlight creeps in through their window and Thomas can faintly hear crickets. He forces himself to count to ten, then backwards, then forwards again until his breathing is even and his thoughts aren’t so scrambled.

_ Just a weird dream,  _ Thomas thinks to himself. _Go back to sleep_. And he should, but now that he’s awake Thomas becomes aware of _other_ concerns. Mainly, his bladder, which has decided to proclaim loudly that it needs to be emptied, _now_.

With some reluctance, Thomas peels himself away from Alexander and crawls out of bed. How they managed to fit themselves on just a twin mattress is beyond Thomas. He doesn’t question it too hard, though. He doesn’t mind it.

Thomas tries to pad as silently to the bathroom as possible, avoiding tripping over strewn about clothes and wincing as he walks. It _really_ had been a while since he’d been fucked, especially like that. _College, maybe?_ Thomas thinks. _No, there was that one guy-_

His train of thought gets derailed when he spots his phone lying in the corner of the room. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he was stripping so quickly. Thomas picks it up, breathing a sigh of relief when there’s no cracks on the screen. It’s an Agency phone after all and-

Thomas realizes that he’s in much more trouble than simply a cracked work phone. James and Lafayette’s last texts come to mind and for a split second, Thomas considers turning it on. _It’s coming_ , says a voice in his head and Thomas’ hand clenches around his phone.

_ Tomorrow,  _ he promises himself as he slowly creeps to the dresser and slides his phone into one of the drawers. _Tomorrow for sure_.

And then Thomas’ body reminds him of his purpose for getting up and he stumbles into the bathroom. He doesn’t even bother turning on the light, his night vision is fine and he doesn’t want to wake himself up more than he has to. So Thomas does his business in the dark, and when he’s done he curses himself for not picking up his boxers on the way in.

He washes his hands in the dark, the final slips of his odd dream slipping away. Something about red grass? It doesn’t matter. Thomas dries his hands on a washcloth and creeps back into the main room. He doesn’t want to wake Alexander, after all-

Except Alexander is already awake, sitting up in bed and clutching a pillow to his chest. Thomas frowns at the distraught expression on the man’s face.

“Hey,” he whisper-calls. “What are you doing up?” Alexander jumps, eyes snapping up to meet Thomas gaze.

“I could ask the same of you,” Alexander says back, just as quietly.

“Had to pee,” Thomas says. Alexander blinks, then seemingly takes stock of Thomas’ still naked state and where he’s standing in the room.

“Oh,” is all Alexander says. Thomas crosses the room and crawls back into bed with Alexander.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, praying that this time, _this time_ , Alexander will just tell him.

“Nothing, I-” Alexander cuts off when he sees what must be the most downcast look Thomas has ever made in his life. The other man lets out a breath, fingers curling into the pillow. “...I was afraid you’d left.”

Thomas blinks, reaches a hand out and covers one of Alexander’s hands with his own. “And why would you think I would do that?” He asks. Alexander shrugs like a tiny child with chocolate on his face being asked who ate the last cookie.

“I’m just scared you’re going to leave,” Alexander admits. “Don’t know why but-” Alexander stops talking, choosing instead to bury his face into his pillow. “It’s stupid. Forget it.” Thomas frowns, then pulls Alexander into his arms.

“I am never going to leave you,” Thomas says. Alexander nuzzles into his chest.

“Promise?” He asks.

“Promise,” Thomas replies. Alexander relaxes into Thomas’ arms and it’s not long before his breathing evens out. He even snores a little, Thomas comes to learn a few minutes later. Not much, just little mouse-like snores.

“I promise,” Thomas says again, this time to what he _knows_ is a sleeping Alexander. “I love you.”

\---------------

“Where the hell are we going Lee?” John snarls. Charles Lee glances around a street corner.

“I told you, I found Alexander’s body,” Lee says. John’s jaw sets. _Alexander’s body_. His entire body goes cold just thinking about the concept of finding Alexander’s

body but not Alexander.

“I got that,” John snaps. “But _where_ is it? How much further?”

“Not much,” Lee says, turning the corner and striking down the street. John rolls his eyes, glancing back at Nathaniel Greene. The taller Korean man just frowns and shrugs.

“He's Lee, what are you going to do?” Greene asks. John huffs and follows Lee down the street. He doesn't like being so visible this deep in Redcoat territory. _Why the hell was Lee even here in the first place?_ John asks himself, not for the first time.

He swears Lee better not be playing them or John is going to have to set up a little meeting between his fists and Lee’s face. A meeting that’s long overdue, in John’s opinion.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, his ten-minute alarm he’s set to remind him to text Laf. Making sure Lee isn’t looking, John whips out his phone and sends Laf his current location. He doesn’t want to be right in his suspicions of Lee, but that doesn’t make him a fool. Since the Monmouth Raid, John hasn’t trusted Lee as far as he could throw him.

Hense why he dragged Greene out with them when Lee told John he’d found Alexander’s body in an alley in Hell’s Kitchen. Why he told Laf he’d text every ten minutes and if he didn’t, then something was wrong. Why John kept a good couple of feet between him and Lee and his eyes glued on the man.

Lee leads them down the street, around another corner and past a few buildings before stopping. “Here,” he says, pointing down the alley. “Right there, by the dumpster.” John peers down the alley. There’s certainly a _shape_ by the dumpster, but whether or not it’s Alexander John can’t tell. He shares a look with Greene, then slowly starts to make his way down the alley.

John hears the other two men follow, his eyes and ears peeled for any other sound. He manages to fire off one last text to Laf before he reaches the huddled shape by the dumpster. John steels himself, hoping beyond all hope that it’s not Alexander, and crouches down.

The figure is cloaked in a blanket, and when John tears it off a man is revealed. It’s not Alex, thank _God,_ the guy just looks like him. Roughly about the same size, he’s got the same goatee, but the rest of his face is wrong. John takes a breath to call out to Greene and Lee when he hears the gunshot.

John snaps his head up just in time to watch Greene’s already lifeless body hit the ground. Lee stands there, silhouetted by street lights, a gun in one hand. There’s blood on his chest, and he’s looking down at Greene with disgust. Greene body is spilling blood from a gruesome hole in his neck, and it takes John but a fraction of a second to realize that everything he thought about Lee was right.

“Fucker,” John growls, already reaching into his pocket for his phone. He pulls it out, but a hand clamps down on his wrist. The man- the one who had pretended to be Alexander’s body- twists the phone out of John’s hand and sends it flying out onto the street. John swings, pushing the palm of his hand onto the man’s nose. The man lets go of John with a howl and John takes off towards Lee.

He’s so close, close enough that he might be able to reach him before Lee gets another shot off. Red is starting to creep into the edges of John’s vision. How _dare_ this motherfucker pretend his best friend is dead, just to bring John out here to try and shoot him like a dog.

Lee just smiles, tisking even as John draws closer. That should be enough to stop John in his tracks but his brain is in fight mode and it’s not until he registers the other figures stepping into the alleyway that John realizes what’s really going on. He skids to a halt, he knows he’s not going to break through a line of guys like this. They all loom over him in height. Even in a full rage, John is far outmatched. 

“You actually did it Lee,” one of the men says. “You got the little faggot out here.”  Lee shoots him a look.

“I said I’d do it, didn’t I?” He snaps. John’s eyes flick between each of the men, trying to come up with a plan. There’s not a weak link, not that he can see. He might just have to stall. He’s got ten minutes until Laf gets worried, then travel time. There’s no way to predict how long it’ll take Laf to find this place, if they even come.

“I knew you were a piece of shit,” John spits. “Me and Alex.”

“Ah, but did anyone believe you?” Lee asks.

“They’ll believe us after this,” John says.

“Not when I drag your bodies in with a story about getting jumped.” Lee smiles, one finger fiddling with the trigger. John glances down at Greene’s body.

“You need half a dozen guys to shoot me?” John asks. “Kinda pathetic.”

Lee’s smile just stretches wider. “Oh no. I shot Greene just fine, in case you’ve forgotten. You’re going to _beg_ me for a bullet by the end of this.” 

“I highly fuckin’ doubt that,” John says, hackles rising. 

“King’s orders,” Lee explains. “He said something about destroying everything that Hamilton loves?” He lets out a small chuckle. “Alright boys, have at it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Thomas and Alexander have only known each other for like two weeks max and this is _not_ a healthy relationship.
> 
> Also Nathaniel Green is fucking dead whoops.
> 
> Also I swear I ran that dream sequence by my Santeria source and she says it's a fairly good interpretation of what someone without direct exposure and a limited understanding might think of a Santeria party.
> 
> Also I fucking hate dream sequences.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> There are actually some historians that honestly believe that Charles Lee was a turncoat like Benedict Arnold, he just never got caught. Though most historians disagree, there is some minor evidence that _could_ be seen as proof that Lee was working for the British at the time of Monmouth and after.


	43. Welcome to Fluff/Hell Month, Where Unabashed Romantic Joy Is Tempered By Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Alexander eat and go shopping. That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Back And Ready To Kill
> 
> Hey, so there's a pretty explicit death at the end of this chapter. If you want to skip it, I'll stick a short summary of this week's Hell Vignette in the end notes! Once it switches to Laf's POV, you're done. Scroll right to the bottom for the summary.

Alexander is awake by the time Thomas cracks open his eyes the next morning. He emerges from the first dreamless sleep he’s had in days to find Alexander drawing little circles on his chest with one finger. It almost tickles, feather-light on a section of skin free from both bandages and injury. Thomas tightens the arm holding Alexander and brings the other one around to hold him too. Alexander makes a little noise of surprise as Thomas squashes him against his chest.

“Morning,” Thomas says, voice still groggy from sleep.

“Morning,” Alexander breathes. “You trapped my arm.” Thomas can feel Alexander drum his fingers along his chest where his hand is stuck between their bodies. Thomas laughs, squeezing harder. Alexander squirms under his arms and tries to wriggle away, but Thomas won’t let him. “Let me up asshole.”

“What’s the passcode?” Thomas teases. Alexander huffs.

“I said let me up.”

“Nope.”

“Let me up or I’ll bite you?”

“Kinky, but nope.”

Alexander lets out a noise of exasperation. “Let me up, _please?_ ”

“Still nope.” Thomas feels Alexander try to push away, but Thomas is stronger and keeps him trapped in place. Alexander whines.

“I’m hungry,” he says. Thomas smiles down at him.

“If you give me the passcode, we’ll go get food,” Thomas replies. Alexander huffs, but stills. Thomas can almost hear the gears turning in his head. Alexander looks up at him, determination on his face. Thomas smirks down at him, waiting. Then Alexander’s eyes light up and the man surges forward.

Thomas loosens his grip enough for Alexander to close the distance between them and press a kiss to Thomas’ lips. It’s chaste, their lips sliding together languidly for a moment before Alexander pulls away. His face hovers over Thomas’, a smile on his face.

“Is that the passcode?” Alexander asks. Thomas pretends to think for a moment.

“I’m not sure. Try it again,” he says. Alexander barks a laugh but meets him for another kiss. They lie there for a minute or two, savoring the taste of one another and the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other's. When Alexander finally breaks it, they’re breathing hard. Thomas looks up at the man he loves and lets himself admire Alexander for a moment. His lips are kiss-swollen but turned up in a peaceful smile.

“Alright, I’m hungry,” Thomas says. Alexander rolls his eyes but slides out of Thomas’ arms. Thomas instantly misses him, even as Alexander moves just a few feet away to pick his clothes up off the floor. Thomas follows suit, getting dressed. For the first time, Thomas remembers they both have one set of clothing, each. He's going to have to remedy that.

That's when Thomas realizes how little money he actually has on him. A couple hundred, sure, but who knows how many nights they'll stay up here, plus food, clothes and whatever else they'll need. _I can just use my card, no big deal-_

Except he can't, not without creating a trail. It's been at least a day since he left the team back in the condo, they're certainly watching his money to see if anything changes. _Fuck_.

Thomas watches Alexander pull his hair back into his signature ponytail, trying to figure out how to make this work. Ben had taught him a few things here and there about money laundering techniques; maybe Thomas could remember enough about pushing money around offshore to get at least some funds. A lot of his family money was already somewhere in the Cayman Islands. If he could get his hands on a secure phone, transfer money through different banks-

“Ready?” Alexander asks, breaking Thomas’ train of thought.

“Yeah,” Thomas says. “I think this place has free breakfast.” Alexander’s eyes light up.

“You never said this place had free food,” he says. Thomas chuckles as Alexander grabs his wrist and pulls him out of the room. Thomas just manages to snag one of the room keys and then they’re in the hallway. Alexander leads Thomas along, pulling the taller man to the main lobby with a surprising amount of strength.

When Alexander gets a look at the counters full of hotel breakfast food, Thomas can see the awe in his eyes. He hears Alexander breathe a ‘holy shit’ and then they’re up by the paper plates. Thomas just watches as Alexander takes his time, scanning the shelves of pre-prepared and packaged food. Alexander comes to a decision, and by the time he’s done he’s got two whole plates stacked high.

Thomas, for his part, was never a fan of this mass-produced shlock. All he’s got is some oatmeal and hotel coffee. He picks a seat in the corner and watches Alexander try and balance the near mounds of food he’s got. When Alexander finally takes his seat across from Thomas, it makes him but a moment to start throwing food down. Thomas just picks at his food, trying to choke down bites, and just watching Alexander eat.

When Alexander finally comes back up for air, he looks up at Thomas only to catch him watching. Thomas doesn’t mind, even smiles as Alexander blushes.

“Stop it,” Alexander mutters, kicking Thomas’ ankle softly under the table.

“Stop what?” Thomas asks. “Admiring you? Never.” Alexander ducks his head, mutters something about ‘stupid handsome southern fucks.’ and Thomas laughs. Thomas nudges Alexander’s foot under the table, and then they’re playing footsie like two teenagers on their first date.

“So, what’s the plan,” Alexander asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“We stay here until James says it’s safe to go back,” Thomas says. Alexander frowns, one eyebrow cocked curiously.

“Are you in contact with him?” Alexander asks. Thomas takes a sip of his coffee, stalling.

“No,” he says.

“Then how...?”

Thomas glances around him like he’s sizing up the crowd of tourists and old women for danger when really he’s still trying to formulate a plan in his head. Hell, he doesn’t even really know what his goal is anymore.

“He’ll get in contact with us,” Thomas says. “Until then, we’re on our own.” Alexander nods, digging into the remains of his first plate of food. Thomas watches him scarf it down, half of his mind working to figure out just what the hell he’s going to do in upstate New York with Alexander Hamilton, the other half suddenly concerned about how much Alexander eats if he’s this desperate for shitty hotel food.

 _Funds_ , the working part of his brain reminds him. Reluctantly, Thomas stands from their table. “I’m going to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” Thomas says.

“You better,” Alexander says around a mouthful of food. Thomas just leaves him there, turning down the hallway into the concierge desk. Thomas asks the man there if there’s a hotel phone he can use, and the man willingly points him to a wall phone.

He has to think for a moment, trying to remember how to call outside US borders, before he punches in what he _thinks_ is what he needs. He knows he has the right information on his cell, but that’s up in their room and Thomas still doesn’t want to turn it on. _Later today,_ he promises himself before someone comes over the line.

Thomas lets out a breath when the person on the other end rattles off the greeting for his family bank. Keeping his voice as low as possible, Thomas arranges a transfer of his own money to a second bank. He tries to work as quickly as possible, hissing out the answer to his security questions and instructions. If he’s gone for too long, Alexander will get worried.

The image of Alexander’s face last night when he thought Thomas had left flashes through his head. He works faster, asking for the number to a third, unaffiliated bank and working to set up an account there. He just manages to get his savings there before he decides he’s been away from Alexander too long.

Thomas knows he should make a few more transfers as quickly as possible, but two should be enough to keep him secure for at least the day. He hangs up, thanks the concierge and heads back out into the lobby. When he looks at the table he left Alexander at, the other man is gone. In his place is three full plates of food.

Thomas looks over to the food counter, and there’s Alexander, pilling yet another plate of food high. He makes his way slowly back to the table, only to be met by Alexander dropping the plate on the table. Alexander looks up at him.

“Hey, you’re back,” he says. Then he looks down at Thomas’ neglected food. “Are you going to eat that?”

Thomas shakes his head, ignoring the grumbling in his stomach. “Not a big fan of this stuff,” he explains, pushing the plate of half-cooled oatmeal to the other man. “I’ve got standards when it comes to food.”

Alexander rolls his eyes but pulls Thomas’ plate towards himself. “Alright, Mr. Fancy-pants. More food for me.” Alexander plonks down into his head and resumes eating. For a small man, he sure inhales quite a lot of food very quickly.

“You’re going to get a stomach ache at this pace,” Thomas warns. Alexander shrugs.

“I’d rather hurt because I’m full rather than because I’m starving,” Alexander replies. Thomas finds himself shocked into silence. He watches Alexander eat like he’s never going to see food again and Thomas realizes that, most of the time, that must be Alexander’s reality. So Thomas sits back and lets Alexander stuff himself. He tries not to wonder when the last time Alexander set eyes on this much food was, let alone got the chance to have a full stomach.

Thomas resolves to change that reality if given the chance.

He watches Alexander and is struck again by how handsome, how _beautiful_ Alexander is. The little part of his brain still stuck on _why_ Thomas risked everything, _why_ they’re hidden up here in Nowheresville, New York, is silenced with the answer: _because of Alexander._

Thomas simply admires Alexander from the other side of the table, imagining eating breakfast with Alexander every day. Alexander starts to speak as he eats but Thomas just lets the sound of his voice wash over him. Thomas loses track of time, content to sit here and just be.

But eventually, Alexander finally drops his plastic silverware on his now empty plate and looks up. “Hey, do me a favor?” Thomas hums, not quite processing Alexander’s words in his happy haze. “I _asked_ , could you do me a favor? Since you obviously haven’t been paying attention?”

“What?” Thomas asks. Alexander collects his used plates into a stack and pushes them towards Thomas.

“Throw this away,” Alexander says. Thomas huffs but does as he’s asked. When he’s done, he turns around to find Alexander stuffing what food he can into the pockets of his hoodie. Thomas rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Alexander’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to hoard food like a squirrel, you know. Room service exists for a reason,” Thomas says.

“And room service is expensive,” Alexander replies.

“Family trust fund?” Thomas reminds him, pointing at himself.

“I’m not taking your money for food.” Alexander wraps a cinnamon roll into a napkin and goes to pocket it. Thomas reaches out and plucks it from his hand.

“Food is for _both_ of us,” Thomas says. “I need to eat too.” Alexander eyes Thomas, gaze flicking down to the roll in his hand and back up to his face.

“Fine,” Alexander says. Thomas smiles and tosses the roll into the trash.

“Speaking of spending money,” he says. “We need to go shopping.” Alexander recoils, blinking up at Thomas.

“Excuse me?”

“We need clothes,” Thomas explains. Alexander glances down at himself, taking in the highlighter yellow shirt he’s wearing from yesterday. Alexander opens his mouth, surely to protest Thomas spending money on him, but Thomas grabs Alexander’s hand before he can speak. “I won’t hear protests.”

Alexander looks down at their conjoined hands, then back up at Thomas. He must see the determined expression and decide, for once, not to argue. Alexander simply squeezes Thomas’ hand. “Alright.”

Thomas grins. Alexander smiles back, all the fight left over draining from his face. Thomas pulls Alexander through the lobby, leading them to the front door. On the way, they pass by a directory plaque. Alexander glances at it, then stops short.

“Thomas,” he says, tugging on Thomas’ hand. “Thomas, they have a pool.” Thomas glances at the directory. Sure enough, the third entry reads ‘pool,’ accompanied by a little white arrow pointing down the hall.

“They sure do,” Thomas says, waiting to see where Alexander is going with this. Alexander looks down the hall in the direction of the arrow.

“Can we go?” Alexander asks. Thomas blinks, and Alexander looks up with wide puppy-dog eyes. “Thomas,” he whines. Alexander’s expression is wide, pleading and Thomas finds himself caving before he even completely processes the request.

“Later,” Thomas says. Alexander instantly lights up in with a wide, wicked grin. The inside of Thomas’ chest warms at the sight, and as they walk out the front sliding doors, Thomas swings their hands between them.

The town surrounding the hotel is small, just big enough for a large hotel chain to have a property, but still small enough that Thomas is sure someone could walk the length of town in less than an hour. Most of the buildings around them are made of old, painted wood paneling and Thomas can see rolling greenery in the spaces between houses and shops.

If he pretends hard enough, Thomas can almost convince himself he’s back home, walking the streets of that little suburb outside the Jefferson family land. The hotel is on one side of town and Thomas can smell the farmland on the wind. He shuts his eyes for a moment, letting long-abandoned memories surface to the front of his mind-

“What the hell is that smell?” Alexander’s question jolts Thomas from his revere. He looks down at Alexander, sees the way the man’s nose is scrunched up in disgust.

“Farm animals,” Thomas says. Alexander cocks an eyebrow, glancing up and down the street.

“Animals do not smell that bad,” he says. Thomas shrugs.

“Did you want me to tell you it’s the piles of shit those animals produce?” He asks. Alexander scowls. Thomas chuckles, rolling his eyes. “It reminds me of home.”

“Oh, so you are a little country boy,” Alexander teases. Thomas shoots him a look.

“There is nothing wrong with being from the country,” Thomas says. Alexander cocks one eyebrow.

“The city’s where it’s at,” Alexander says. Thomas shrugs.

“I’d rather have a nice little home on a hill, away from everything,” Thomas remarks.

“ _Booorriinng_ ,” Alexander says, giving a fake yawn.

“Hey, I grew up somewhere like that, and I can assure you that it was _not_ boring.” Thomas looks at a passing bakery, eyeing the cupcake display in the window. “Nine kids, empty space, a few animals… no, it was never boring in the Jefferson house.”

“You also had the money to do whatever you wanted,” Alexander adds. Thomas hums.

“I suppose that helped,” he says, looking at the little boutique they’ve come across. “Here, this will do.”

\--------------

Lafayette can’t get it out of their head.

_The gunshot, the splatter of blood across Charles Lee’s face as John staggers back, confusion plastered across his face. They must have cried out, made a sound, because one of the men had turns to look at them._

_“Shit, it’s Frenchie,” he calls. “Scatter!”_

_Lafayette doesn’t pay any attention to the men rushing around them, even as one takes a swing at their jaw. They dodge on instinct, pushing through the alley to be by John’s side. John - precious, lovely John - breathing raggedly around the hole in his chest. He’s leaning up against a wall, a hand plastered against his upper left side._

_“John!” Lafayette calls. John lifts his hand away from his side to look down at his own blood uncomprehendingly. “John, what happened?”_

_“I… I got shot,” John mutters. He slumps further against the wall, Lafayette there just in time to help hold him up._

_“Alright, okay, you’re alright,” Lafayette breathes, one hand sliding around to find the hole in John’s chest._

There is still dried blood under their nails, but the fresh stuff isn’t John’s. Not anymore.

_John looks up at him, just the tiniest twinkle of fear in his eyes. He grunts as Lafayette finds the gunshot wound and presses down on it. “I’m okay,” he repeats, voice dazed. Lafayette nods emphatically. They’re no stranger to death, but fighting it off is something they don’t know how to do._

_“Yes, you are just fine. But you have to tell me what to do,” Lafayette says. John just looks up at them, even as his legs give out underneath him. “Okay, okay, we’re going to the floor, we’re gonna lay you down,” they mutter._

_They get John on the dirty ground, hand still pressing against the open wound. John whimpers as his back his the floor, even with Lafayette’s attempt to cushion the fall. Their hand not on John’s body fumbles for their phone. It slips in their blood-slick hand, falls, and skitters away from them._

Lafayette steps on a little flip phone, crushing it beneath their heel. The hand that had been holding it is limp.

_“Laf,” John mutters and drags their attention back to him. “Laf, let’s go back to the club.”_

_Lafayette finds themself nodding. “Okay, we can go,” they reply, before wiping their head over their shoulder and calling into the dark morning: “Hello? Help, please!”_

_“I wanna go back to the club, please,” John mutters. “I wanna go home.”_

_“Of course,_ mon amour _, of course. Look at me.” They grab John’s face with their free hand, holding his cheek gently. John is shaking under their hands. Lafayette doesn’t know what to do. John would if their positions were to be reversed, but Lafayette is at a loss._

_“I’m ready to go, come on,” John urges, trying to push himself up. Lafayette shakes their head, leaning down into John to keep him on the ground._

_“We’ll go, don’t worry,” Lafayette says. “Anyone?!” They shout at the mouth of the alley. “A man’s been shot!”_

_“Gil, please.” John’s voice is growing weaker, and when Lafayette looks down there’s blood between his teeth_.

There are teeth scattered across the wooden floor now, resting in pools of blood. Or maybe those are skull fragments.

 _“No, no, no,” Lafayette breathes, “We’re going to go home, John. We’re going to go, okay?” But John doesn’t respond, just coughs, spilling blood onto his chin and throat. Lafayette reaches up to hold John’s face in two hands. “John, please,_ John! _”_

_John’s shaking stops as Lafayette cradles his head into their chest. “John,” they mutter. “John, no.”_

_They allow themselves exactly sixty seconds before they gather John into their arms and fulfill his last request - they go back to the club. They ignore the other body in the alley to carry John back to their business, their_ child. _When they arrive, the other Sons leadership is there, and Lafayette looks completely calm._

_“John is dead.”_

Even standing in an empty warehouse, coated in Charles Lee’s blood, standing over his body, Lafayette can’t stop thinking about the way John looked at them in those last moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's Hell Vignette brought to you by: John's death! John was shot by Charles Lee, found moments before death by his good friend Lafayette, and Lafayette decided to take revenge into their own hands and brutally murdered Lee in retaliation with their bare hands. To say Lafayette's not taking this well is an understatement.
> 
> So yeah, this is gonna be how the next month or so of updates is going to be like. Fun fluff with our two idiots with a wonderful little snapshot of what's going down in Manhattan.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for being so understanding of my two-week break! I literally did not have time to write this fic. That's because I was too busy writing what basically turned out to be a novel in a three-week span! If you haven't checked out my submission for the 2k17 Summer fic exchange, please do! I worked almost non-stop on [The Alchemist's Apprentice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11361129/chapters/25430928) and honestly, it turned out really well for the time frame! But yeah, that's what I was doing instead of murdering poor John and gearing up for Fluff/Hell Month. Thanks again!
> 
> See you Friday.


	44. Casually Drops In More Antagonists At Chapter 44 Because This Damn Fic Isn't Long Enough I Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Alex finish shopping and go swimming. Nothing else happens I swear.

“How much more?” Alexander whines. Thomas drops a pile of jeans into his arms with a grin.

“Just a few,” he says.

“You said that twenty minutes ago!” Alexander protests, fingers curling around the stack of fabric.

“Well, if _someone_ remembered what size he wears we would have been out of here earlier,” Thomas replies.

“I _told_ you my size -”

“And it was too big!”

Alexander lets out a noise of frustration, marches into the dressing room and slams the door behind him. “Those jeans fit fine when I bought them.”

“Out of goodwill, did you really have all that great of a selection?” Thomas calls back, sitting himself down on the little ottoman seat in front of the dressing room.

“Hey -” Alexander sticks his head out of the room, nose scrunched up - “don’t you badmouth goodwill.”

“I’m just saying…” Thomas doesn’t get to finish before a pair of jeans comes flying at his head. “Okay, okay!” He says, throwing his hands up in defeat. Alexander shoots him one last dirty look before disappearing into the changing room. Thomas sighs, looking at the door. He makes himself a promise that Alexander isn’t going to wear anything he bought from a goodwill ever again.

Thomas makes Alexander parade everything he tries on - unless even Alexander can tell it doesn’t fit - and Thomas is willing to admit he enjoys it. Especially when they find a pair of jeans that make Alexander’s somehow look even better than it already is.

By the time they make it back to the hotel, it’s past lunchtime. They’d stopped by a little cafe for lunch, as well as a dollar store for smaller items. Thomas willingly paid for everything, even as Alexander had protested, but when presented with the fact Alexander had no alternative, he’d allowed it.

Thomas drops their bags on one of the beds, the one they _hadn’t_ slept on last night and sorts their stuff between drawers as Alexander showers. When he opens the topmost drawer on his side to drop his shirts in, Thomas spots his phone lying inside. He looks at it for a moment, but drops his clothes on top of it and shuts the drawer. _Tonight,_ he promises.

When he’s done with that, he spends the rest of Alexander’s shower - the man apparently likes long ones - working on getting his money secure for him to use. By the time Alexander’s done, Thomas has pushed a sizable amount of funds halfway around the world and back, as well as arranged for a local bank to print him a debit card.

Alexander, still in a towel, flops onto the bed beside Thomas. “Okay, what now?” he asks. Thomas puts the room phone receiver down and looks over.

“I don’t know, what do you want to do?”

Alexander buzzes his lips. “How much time do we have until we can go back?”

“I have no clue,” Thomas says, hiding the sinking feeling in his gut. Alexander hums then looks over at Thomas.

“Can we go swimming?” He asks. “We bought swim trunks, you _said_ we could, please?” He sounds almost like a child, and the bottom-lip-stuck-out pout doesn’t help the image. Thomas hesitates, feeling his bandages rub against his chest.

“Should you go swimming with your injuries?” He asks. Alexander’s pout deepens in response.

“I'll be careful,” he whines. Thomas bites his lip.

“Later tonight?” He offers. “The pool doesn’t close until almost midnight.”

Alexander moans. “But I’m _bored_. What are we supposed to do until then?”

Thomas smirks, a chuckle rises in his throat. “Well, there’s _something_ that comes to mind…”

\--------------

They lie in bed for hours afterward, Alexander tucked between Thomas’ arms and under his chin. Thomas watches the sun dip low in their window as they talk aimlessly.

“Where’d you grow up?” Alexander asks.

“Virginia, I’ve told you,” Thomas replies. Alexander huffs.

“Yeah, but _where_.”

Thomas smiles. “Somewhere secret,” he says, and Alexander groans. “No, I’m serious. My great-great-grandfather built it and bribed the right people to get it stricken from tax records. It doesn’t technically exist.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Alexander says. Thomas shakes his head.

“Absolutely not. We call it Monticello and it’s this huge plot of land in the middle of Virginia that’s got acres of farmland, and it all doesn’t exist on official record.” Thomas sighs. “The family doesn’t live there anymore though. Mom wanted to move after Sam and Peter died. Too many memories. We still own it, but no one’s lived in it for about a decade now.”

“Sounds like the setup for a bad horror movie.” Alexander shifts in Thomas’ hold so he can look up at Thomas.

“It’s beautiful actually. It’s got these wonderful gardens, just expanses of flowers and topiary… I’ll take you there someday,” he says. Alexander hums, then glances over at the nightstand.

“It’s like, seven,” he says. “I’m hungry and I want to go swimming.”

“You sound like a seven-year-old,” Thomas teases, and Alexander rolls his eyes.

“Let me up ya huge-ass dork,” he says, and Thomas complies, letting Alexander out from between his arms. Alexander rolls out of bed and grabs the one shopping bag Thomas hadn’t unpacked and tosses Thomas his newly-purchased swim trunks.

“Do you want room service?” Thomas asks as Alexander slides his own shorts on.

“Obviously?” Alexander says, shooting Thomas a look. Thomas rolls his eyes, grabs the phone and orders for the two of them. It doesn’t take long for food to arrive, they eat quickly and then Thomas makes an excited Alexander wait for another half-an-hour before letting Alexander drag him down to the pool.

The moment they’re inside the pool house, Alexander is already stripping his shirt off and throwing his shoes under one of the empty pool-side chairs. Thomas glances around and takes in the sight of the few families scattered around the tiled room. He goes to the chair Alexander had selected and gently folds the other man’s rumpled shirt. He puts it on the chair next to him and takes a seat, watching Alexander launch himself into the deep end of the pool.

Alexander hits the surface of the water with a _splash_ , children shrieking around him. Thomas is far enough away not to be in danger of getting hit, thankfully. Alexander resurfaces a moment later, blinking water out of his eyes. He looks over at Thomas, who claps gently.

“Five out of ten, excellent splash, poor entry,” Thomas says, laughing. Alexander screws up his face and gently paddles over to where his feet touch, then walks the rest of the way over to the wall by Thomas.

“You’re not getting in?” He asks. Thomas shrugs.

“I’m good,” he says, but Alexander is already giving him that puppy-dog look.

“Please?” He asks. “For me?” Thomas hesitates, then glances over at the posted rules. They don’t allow street clothes in the pool whatsoever. With a sigh, Thomas slides off his shoes and pads over to the edge of the pool. Slowly, he lowers himself to sit near Alexander and dip his legs in.

“Good enough?” Thomas asks, and Alexander frowns.

“Come on, swim with me.” Alexander grabs Thomas’ hand and pulls gently. Thomas resists, barely moving under Alexander’s insistence. Alexander sighs, not dropping Thomas’ hand but stopping his assault. “Why don’t you want to come swimming?”

“I’d just rather not, okay?” Thomas says. Alexander’s teasing pout turns serious as he looks up at Thomas.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just don’t want to go swimming.”

“Thomas Jefferson, you can’t in one-minute demand I open up and then shut yourself off to me in another,” Alexander says, moving to stand between Thomas’ legs. His hands come up to hold Thomas by the cheeks, keeping their eye contact steady. His hands are wet from the pool water and cool against Thomas’ skin. Thomas purses his lips, then sighs.

“I don’t want to take my shirt off,” Thomas admits. Alexander blinks, still frowning.

“There’s no reason to be shy around _me_ of all people -”

“No, it’s not that,” Thomas says. Alexander’s eyes narrow slightly, searching Thomas’ face as if he could see the reason written on his skin. Thomas tries to pull back, manages to pull his face away and start to stand before Alexander latches onto his hands. “Alex I don’t -”

“Thomas.”

“I don’t want to look at my own body, okay?” Thomas says lowly. “And there are other people around.” Alexander squeezes Thomas’ hands, understanding flooding his face.

“Scars,” he says, just as quietly. Thomas nods, jaw set. He glances around, looking to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation. They seem to be ignored for the most part, and Alexander grabs Thomas’ attention by placing a small kiss on his cheek.

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Alexander says. Thomas squeezes his hands back, gives him a slight smile, and then kisses him back on the cheek. Alexander giggles, lets go of Thomas’ hands and pushes off the wall. He glides through the water until he accidentally collides with a young child.

Somehow, Alexander gets sucked into playing with strangers’ children, splash-fighting a ten-year-old and showing an older child how to do a flip turn off the wall. Thomas watches from his perch, feet dangling in the water. He chats with the kid’s parents like Alexander is his own child instead of his…

“Boyfriend,” he tells one of the mothers. “He’s my boyfriend.” Though Thomas says it with a bit of internal pause. What _are_ they really? Can he really call them ‘dating,’ considering the circumstances? Thomas ponders the semantics as he and the middle-aged mom watch the group in the poor devolve into a five-against-Alexander splash war.

Alexander is soundly beaten by the time the moms call their children to pack up and go upstairs for bed. Alexander waves them all goodbye from in the water, one even demands a hug before the boy swims out to meet his mom with a towel. Shortly, Thomas and Alexander are the only ones left in the pool house, and Alexander turns his attention to him.

“Alright, your friends are all gone, do you wanna leave?” Thomas asks, teasing Alexander just a bit. Alexander shoots him a look and swims up to the wall.

“Nope,” he says. “Not until you get in with me for a bit.”

Thomas sighs. “I already told you -”

“Please? There’s no one else here now,” he says. Thomas hesitates, then feels along the hem of his gray shirt. Alexander gently puts his hands over Thomas’, staying with him as far as he can reach while Thomas slides his shirt up and off. Thomas wads it into a ball and tosses it back at their chairs. He’s not wearing his bandages anymore, they’re practically useless now, so every mark on his skin is bare to the world.

“See? Not so bad,” Alexander says. Thomas turns to look at him, keeping his eyes up high enough that he can’t see a hint of his own chest. Thomas slowly slides into the pool, shivering slightly when the chill water moves up past where Thomas’ skin had gotten used to it.

Alexander gently takes Thomas' hands and leads him a little deeper into the water, just until they’re standing freely in the center. They stand there for a moment, Thomas looking at Alexander only to find him looking up and down at him back. Then Alexander gently leans forward and presses a short kiss onto Thomas’ shoulder.

Thomas glances down just in time to see Alexander move from the first little scar to the second, slightly larger one just next to it. “Alexander -”

“Shush,” Alexander interrupts.

“What are you doing?” He asks, trying to pull away but Alexander holds his hands tight and keeps him in place.

“I’m honoring beauty, now shush and stay still,” is Alexander’s reply before tracing a line down the long scar on Thomas’ left shoulder. Thomas feels Alexander’s lips flutter along his chest and arms, almost giggling when they ghost over the ones on his sides.

“Stop it,” Thomas protests, squirming slightly.

“Stay _still_ ,” Alexander says again, holding out Thomas’ right arm and pressing short kisses to the remains of the checkerboard cuts, just a few small square divots left to scar over.

“Alex,” Thomas says, “these aren’t _beautiful_ , they’re -”

“They’re beautiful if I say they are,” Alexander insists, lifting Thomas’ arm to move behind him to reach the scars littering Thomas’ back. There was a fluttering in Thomas’ stomach at Alexander’s words, even if he would never admit it.

“Alexander,” he said again, much more insistently, but Alexander didn’t let up.

“It’s true,” he says. “Each and every one of them. Gorgeous.” Alexander slid back around to Thomas’ front, lips ghosting over the little crown carved into Thomas’ skin. Then he slowly trails a line of kisses up, ignoring the scars for now and just making his way up until Alexander could connect their lips.

“No matter what, I still think you’re beautiful,” Alexander mutters into their kiss. Thomas sighs.

“They’re… they’re awful reminders of -”

Alexander shushed him with another kiss. “I’ll convince you they’re beautiful, then.”

“How?” Thomas asks. Alexander leans back enough to look up at him through his lashes.

“Take me upstairs and I’ll show you.”

And so Thomas did.

\--------------

John Adams hadn’t been back to his apartment for two whole days, terrified to leave _The Frenchman_ alone while whole dozens of men sent out came back with but a handful at most. But he hadn’t showered, hadn’t changed his clothes, hadn’t fed his _dogs_ in that time, and he was starting to get anxious. So when B.T. and Knox offered to drive him home and back, Adams couldn’t refuse.

The ride over had been silent, Adams in the back while Tallmadge and Knox shared the front, arguing over the radio. Tallmadge eventually won, insisting on silence, and so Adams shifted awkwardly in his seat and tried not to make himself a target in the window. It was dark out, an hour or two before sunrise, perfect time for a quick run, or so Knox told him.

Adams knew he wasn’t the usual type to run with guys like Knox and Tallmadge. He was small, more suited for an office job or bureaucracy, and had a much higher sense of self-preservation than the other men in the car did. He hadn’t _wanted_ this life, running numbers and playing phone tag with gangsters, but Washington paid him and it was a cushy gig that came with it’s own security detail.

That was until _Hamilton_ and the cop went and fucked it all up.

“Uh, here,” Adams says as Tallmadge pulled close to his apartment building.

“Yeah, I know,” Tallmadge grunts back, and Adams shuts his mouth. Tallmadge pulled into the lot, and he and Knox got out. Adams follows, walking sandwiched between the two larger men. Tallmadge led, Knock behind and Adams can’t help but feel trapped by his own men.

“So, uh, were you two going to come upstairs or…”

“Yep,” Knox says behind him. Adams glances back. Knox had been looking more haggard since Green died, but he looks hard and cold now.

“Alright. The dogs shouldn’t give you a problem. Juno’s a sweetheart, but Satan’s… well I named him Satan for a reason but he’s better than when he was a pup,” Adams says, following Tallmadge inside the building and into the lift. “It’s the -”

“Third floor, room 6,” Tallmadge finishes for him. Adams just nods. They ride the elevator in silence, Adams feeling like the odd man of a comedy trio, heads shorter than his companions and much less muscular.

When they get out of the elevator, Tallmadge leads the way to Adams’ apartment, standing aside only long enough to let Adams fumble with his keys and get them in the door. Instantly, the sound of two dogs’ nails skittering on hardwood could be heard, and a moment later the dual corgis poked their heads out of Adams’ bedroom.

“Hey guys,” Adams says, kneeling down as Juno and Satan rushed him. The other two men slide into the apartment behind Adams, Knox shutting the door firmly as Tallmadge scanned the living room. “How ya doing? Daddy’s sorry he was away, he’ll feed you, don’t worry -”

“John,” Knox says, jolting Adams out of his moment of bliss. Adams sighs, standing and leading his dogs into the kitchen. The bowls on the floor were empty, and both his beautiful little babies nearly jumped him as he pulls the bag of dog food off the shelf.

He feeds Juno and Satan, fills their water dishes and goes for his bedroom. He just needs a shower and a change -

“John, hold up a minute,” Knox says. Adams looks over to find both men on his couch, obviously having made themselves at home. “We want to talk to you about something.” Adams eyes both men, sees the grim look on their faces and slowly walks over to sit in his armchair.

“What Henry?” Adams asks. Knox shares a glance with Tallmadge, and then B.T. began to talk. Adams stays quiet as Tallmadge lowly lays out what he knows, what he plans, Knox jumping in occasionally. He can hear his dogs chewing through their meal, then skittering around the kitchen together before coming to curl around his feet. The clock on the wall ticks the seconds away as Adams just listens.

When Tallmadge is done Adams pauses for a moment, drumming his hands on the arm of his chair. “That’s all well and good,” he says eventually, “but have you considered the _timing_ of it all.”

“Yes,” Tallmadge says. “And it’s important we act _now_.” Both men stare at him in solidarity, and Adams knows, with a sinking feeling, that they would not be easily persuaded off course. So he takes a deep breath, looks them in the eyes and says:

“You do realize I knew all of what you told me before now?”

Tallmadge’s jaw sets. “I was hoping you didn’t, that we had another ally.”

“I’m not saying I’m not your ally,” Adams says quickly. “But surely you should have suspected George would have told me.”

Tallmadge’s body tenses, but Knox holds out a steadying hand. “It doesn’t matter now, Benny,” he mutters, then turns to Adams. “Are you with _us_?”

Adams sighs, stands and carefully picks his way around his dogs. “You two must understand, I agree with you completely, but the timing is _wrong_. Had you come to me even a week ago, maybe. But now? King is slaughtering us in the streets, we don’t have time for infighting.”

“There’s only infighting as long as Washington continues to do nothing, let our brothers get _murdered_ and retains his deal!”

“We need to stand together right now,” Adams insists. “I’m going to shower, and we will not speak of this until this blasted war is over.” Adams turns for his bedroom once more, heading for the open doorway -

“Last chance, John,” Tallmadge calls. “We don’t need you, but we want you.”

“Speak to me again when King is dead and we’re all safe,” Adams says. He hears Tallmadge shift on the couch, Knox mutters something and then there’s a _click_.

The last thing Adams is aware of in his entire life is a world-shattering _bang_ , followed by the shocked squealing of his dogs. Then he hears, sees, _breathes_ no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops John's Dead Pt. 2; This Time it's Adams
> 
> See you Friday!


	45. In Which Alexander Discovers How Big Pigs Actually Are Because Apparently People Who Have Never Seen One Before Severely Underestimate The Size Of Those Fuckers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's so short because it's only a little farm date and nothing else.

“ _This_ is your idea of a ‘day out?’” Alexander asks, drawing his hood around his head. Thomas hadn’t dared protest when Alexander had tied the familiar red hoodie around his waist before they left the hotel, but he still doesn’t like the reminder. So instead, Thomas fixes his eyes on the little latched gate in front of them.

“Yes, absolutely,” Thomas says, pushing the wooden gate open. “They’re open, and since _you_ were so adamant that country life is awful, I thought maybe this would be a fun, educational little trip.”

Alexander rolls his eyes, but grabs Thomas’ hand and follows him up the path to Maple Springs Farm, a local historical center that housed a still-working farm and allowed tourists. Thomas and Alexander passed a small family on their way up, the children munching on candy while the frazzled mother ushered them along the path.

“Who comes to a _farm_ for _fun_?” Alexander grumbles. Thomas doesn’t reply, just walks with Alexander up to the old wooden farmhouse and the woman sitting on the porch. She’s in period clothes, probably from around the colonial era, and she smiles as they approach.

“Welcome to Maple Springs Farm friends,” she says cheerily. “Have you been around before?” Thomas shakes his head no, and she carefully runs him through verbal directions for the farm. “And you can walk through the house too,” she finishes.

“Thanks,” Thomas says, already leading Alexander inside.

“Let us know if you need anything!” She calls, settling back into her place on the porch. Thomas glances around the small home. It’s rustic, a far cry from the splendor of Monticello, but charming in both its simplicity and the obvious loving care given to it. Thomas is admiring the delicate carving on the stair banister when he feels Alexander start to get restless beside him.

“Isn’t it charming?” Thomas asks as they walk through the kitchen.

“Tiny as hell,” Alexander says. They can just stand side-by-side in the kitchen, which has a wood oven and lacks a sink. “Your parents raised nine kids in a house like this?”

“No, Monticello is much larger, more modern. But this is nice too,” Thomas adds, running his hands along the gentle yellow curtains.

The living room manages to hold Alexander’s attention for a bit, mostly because of the old writing desk, the stacks of parchment and inkwell in the corner. But he eventually bores of that too, impatiently tugging Thomas along to the backyard.

“What _charm_ is there to living in a tiny space with a _pump_ for water?” He asks, eyeing the bright red hand pump in the ground. Thomas sighs.

“It’s homey!” He says. Alexander levels him with a look.

“Pumping your water by hand is _homey_?”

Thomas frowns. “Okay, fine. I prefer running water, congrats.” Alexander just rolls his eyes and starts off down the path in front of them. Thomas huffs, he wants to hang out and look at the spice garden for a moment, but follows. He’s willing to take the path if it means Alexander gets to meet the animals.

Thomas can smell the farm’s livestock before he can even see their pens, they turn a corner around some trees and suddenly they’re facing a huge pasture. In the distance, Thomas can see the hint of cows grazing. He looks down to find Alexander’s nose scrunched up, and it’s so cute Thomas wants to lean down and place a kiss on it.

He’s just about to when he sees Alexander’s eyes widen. “What the _fuck_ ,” he breathes. Thomas looks up and finds that they’ve managed to find their way to the pig pens. In the one closest to them houses one animal, a black and pink spotted hog.

“Nice pig,” Thomas says, honestly a little impressed. It looks strong, healthy, not the largest he’s ever seen but -

“That’s a _pig_?!” Alexander says, pointing at the pig. It snorts, rooting around in it’s food trough for scraps. Thomas nods.

“Yes, Alexander, that’s a pig,” he says slowly. “What did you think it was?”

Alexander stares at the animal even as they slowly approach the pen. “It’s… it’s so fucking big.”

“Yeah, it’s a pig. Pigs are big,” Thomas says, nodding.

Alexander looks up at him in shock, then back at the pig. “You’re telling me _that’s_ the size of an average pig.”

“Yep,” Thomas says. Alexander leans into the metal fencing, peering at the creature.

“No. No way. Pigs are like small dog size, _max_.”

Thomas shakes his head. “If your pig is the size of a dog, it better be still young or you have a problem. Have you never seen a pig before?”

Alexander slowly shakes his head, eyes still glued on the pig. The animal takes notice of the two people standing at its enclosure and wanders up to the chicken wire. It sniffs at Alexander and snorts. Alexander recoils, and the pig loses interest, waddling back to the corner of its pen and flopping to the ground.

Thomas laughs at Alexander’s goggle-eyed expression, pulling him along down the path even as he stares at the pig. They pass a few more pens, re-enforcing that pigs are really as big as they are.

“Goddamn,” Alexander mutters. “Next you’re going to tell me that cows are like, taller than people.”

Thomas just smiles and gently leads Alexander to the cow pasture, following the little wooden signs. When Alexander gets a good look at a cow that wanders up close, he just shakes his head slowly.

“It’s like… a horse… but… _thicker_ ,” he says, awestruck. “How the fuck is it that big?”

“Don’t tell me that you thought cows were dog-sized too,” Thomas drawls. Alexander rolls his eyes and shoots him a look.

“No! I just didn’t think they were huge hulking creatures that can _trample_ you without a second thought. Are turkeys and chickens bigger than I thought too?”

Thomas jerks his head in the direction of the turkey pens. “Wanna find out?”

Alexander gets one look at a turkey, throws his hands up and declares: “I’m done! I want to go back to the house! Where things make sense and aren’t bigger than they have the right to be!”

Thomas chuckles. “But you didn’t even see the chickens yet.”

“I don’t wanna. Chickens can stay the size I’ve assigned them in my head, I _don’t_ want to know.”

Thomas bursts out laughing as he follows Alexander back up the path, listening to him grumble about inaccurate children’s books under his breath. Thomas takes his hand again, swinging it gently between them as they walk without exchanging a word.

Soon they find themselves back at the farmhouse, and Thomas gently tugs Alexander towards the spice garden. But on their way there, Thomas spots something more interesting and pulls Alexander towards that instead. An old wooden swing attached to a tree, just like in the movies. Alexander shoots him a look as Thomas sits on it and then holds his arms out.

“I’m not -”

Thomas doesn’t even let him get through the protest before he simply grabs him by the wrist, pulls him in, turns him around and sits Alexander on his lap. With his legs stretched out in front of him, Thomas begins to gently push them, feet never leaving the dirt. They just sway back and forth.

Alexander lets out a sigh and relaxes against Thomas’ chest. “You romantic sap,” he teases. Thomas smiles, gently putting his face into Alexander’s neck.

“Yes, yes I am,” he says. Alexander shoots him a smile and then looks front again. The swing overlooks the spice garden, and in the distance, you can see the maple orchard. “Wouldn’t this be nice to have,” Thomas breathes. “Wide open space, nothing but nature…”

“It’s nice to look at,” Alexander admits, “but I couldn’t live somewhere like this. Not enough to do.”

“Not even on a farm? Taking care of the animals and working the fields?”

“Don’t tell me _you’d_ be willing to do that kind of physical labor the rest of your life,” Alexander counters. Thomas lets out a little chuckle.

“I suppose you’ve got me there.” One of Thomas’ hands wraps around one of the swing chains while the other rests against Alexander’s side. “I’d still like to live out in the country.”

“Hard pass,” Alexander says. Thomas just shakes his head.

“Compromise? A house in the city and a house in the country?” Thomas offers. Alexander stills.

“You’re talking like we’re going to be living together after this,” Alexander says cautiously.

“I mean,” Thomas says quietly, after a pause, “I was kind of under the impression we were a thing now.”

“Are we?” Alexander asks.

“I’d like to be.”

“But you’re still a cop and I’m still… me,” Alexander says. Thomas frowns, glad Alexander isn’t looking at him.

“There are ways around that,” he says. He doesn’t voice what he fears: that Thomas ‘being a cop’ isn’t really the problem anymore.

“The Booth deal?” Alexander asks, hesitantly.

“I’d have to ask around,” Thomas says, hoping Alexander doesn’t call him on being vague. They _both_ might need the Booth deal or something similar after this is all over. Thomas pushes the thoughts away as Alexander hums.

“I’d have to think about it,” Alexander says.

“Of course dear,” Thomas says with a sigh. “Take your time.”

\--------------

**To: Thomas:**

**Day three of you being ‘dead’ is almost over.**

James hits send, feeling like he’s talking into a void.

**To: Thomas:**

**I hope you’re still happy about that, by the way. Fuck you for making me call you dead.**

Declaring Thomas ‘dead’ had been the last thing James had wanted to do once the trail went cold in that motel room, but he _needed_ the authority granted to him by being named the official assignment leader. He - and Farnese - had decided that the circumstances around Thomas’ disappearance were enough to qualify as ‘likely dead.’

So Thomas was dead according to the law. James still didn’t quite believe it. Why would King be hunting a dead man? Unless King didn't _know_ … Besides that, James doesn’t _want_ to believe it. Thomas can’t be dead. He just can’t.

**To: Thomas:**

**I really hope you’re enjoying yourself right now, wherever you are.**

James pauses, but the void doesn’t answer back. There’s no answering message, no sudden call, not even the three little dots that signify someone typing. But here, trapped in _The Frenchman_ as the only one able to keep an eye on the Sons, James has no one else to talk to. So he talks to the void.

**To: Thomas:**

**People are still dying in the streets. I can’t stop it. Death toll is in the fifties, probably gotten higher since I last checked in with Revere.**

**To: Thomas:**

**Tallmadge keeps glaring at me. It’s more than him being angry I accused him of letting Adams die. There’s something there, I know it. ‘Redcoats ambushed us’ doesn’t sit right with me.**

“Who are you texting?” asks James Monroe, a way-too-young kid that took over after a governor named Montgomery was shot in a drive-by. James glances up from his phone.

“One of my contacts,” he says. Monroe bites his lip, but backs off. James watches him slowly make his way over to where Knox and Tallmadge are standing. Some of the remaining governors are gathered there as well. James can feel their eyes on him.

**To: Thomas:**

**Washington’s still listening to me, thank god. He still refuses to let anyone counterattack. Keeps using the ‘not enough forces’ excuse.**

James is seated next to the DJ booth Washington uses as a podium. Since Adams’ death, Washington has kept James right by his side. The Sons are running out of men and allies, and Washington is scrounging to keep what he has close. Even if James would allow retaliation, ‘enough forces’ may never come the way men keep dying.

**To: Thomas:**

**Lafayette still won’t talk to anyone. They just sit in the corner and drink. No one dares approach them. The coroner’s report came back on Lee; there was barely a body to autopsy but it still seems Lafayette did it all bare-handed.**

James glances up at the hunched figure of Lafayette, head bowed over a bottle. As much as James wants to, he doesn’t have the time or energy to deal with a murder already done. His priorities lie in stopping more first.

James’ hands clench around his phone. He almost feels like laughing. How can _he_ stop what’s practically a massacre enacted by an uncaring warlord?

**To: Thomas**

**I can’t stop it. I can’t stop anyone from dying and the way this is going, King is just going to crush us all underfoot.**

**To: Thomas:**

**Some stupid part of me thinks you’d have some idea, I mean you probably wouldn’t, but I can hope.**

**To: Thomas:**

**I don’t know what to do anymore.**

**To: Thomas:**

**Thomas, please text me back. I refuse to believe you’re dead until they show me the body.**

**To: Thomas:**

**I need you to not be dead.**

**To: Thomas:**

**Not even as part of the job. I just need my best friend back.**

**To: Thomas:**

**Please, please let me know you’re alive.**

**To: Thomas:**

**Please.**

James stares at his phone but gets no response. He goes to put it away but jumps when it vibrates. He immediately whips it out, hoping -

**From: Martha W.S.**

**Theo Prevost wants to talk. Without Burr.**

_God, now what?_ James wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more fluff/hell month chapter kids. Better hold onto what fluff I've given you, there's very little if any at all after next week.
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Maple Springs Farm is based on an actual historical farm in my hometown, and I always fucking hated it. I never understood why people liked that place. They used to take us on field trips to it once a year in elementary and I thought it was the worst fucking thing ever. The only good thing was that little tree swing but you were only allowed five back and forth wings because everyone wanted a turn.
> 
> Also, pigs are assholes and I hate them. Never trust a pig, they'll fucking eat you and your children if given the chance. Fuck pigs. Pigs are the worst. And now 'pig' doesn't seem like a word in my head.
> 
> I'm really salty about farms and specifically pigs apparently.
> 
> See you Friday.


	46. Fair Rides Are Rickety As Shit And I Don't Trust Them Personally But Alex Can Do What He Wants I Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a lovely, innocent trip to the county fair.

“You chose what we did yesterday,” Alexander says, pulling Thomas along the open expanse of grass, “I choose today.”

“Once again, I’m not complaining about your choice,” Thomas reminds him. Alexander rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but you’re just _saying_ that.” Alexander weaves between the parked cars, Thomas following behind.

“I’m not?”

“I bet you want to go back to that dumb farm or something.”

“Why does it seem like you’re trying to justify this to someone who _wants to go_?”

“Well too bad, we’re going to the goddamn fair and you’re going to like it.” Alexander stops at the entrance gate to the county fair - they’d gotten lucky that it was in town this week - eyeing the entrance banner with shining eyes. Thomas just shakes his head, eyeing the swinging pirate ship in the distance.

“Alright Alexander, I will ‘reluctantly’ take part in this ‘horrendous’ activity.”

“Damn right you will,” Alexander says. Thomas just chuckles and squeezes Alexander’s hand. Alexander squeezes back and pulls him along into the fair. Instantly, they’re surrounded by bright colors, noise, and a pulsing crowd of people holding fair food and corralling children. Music blares through speakers as Alexander whips his head around, trying to take it all in at once.

“So, what first?” Thomas asks. “What ‘awful hell’ are you subjecting me to?”

Alexander pauses, then points into the crowd. “That. That first.” Thomas looks over to find a traveling _Scrambler_ ride spinning at full speed. Alexander drags him on it _three times_ before he finally moves on. He pulls Thomas through each and every ride, even convincing him that the _Pirate’s Ship_ is a good idea. The fear that the carnival ride is going to fall apart under him only exasperates the waves of nausea that hits Thomas midway through the third swing.

So he manages to convince Alexander to give it a rest for a moment, pulling him over to the game booths. Alexander takes one look at the Test Your Strength set up and decides that he’s going to _win_. Thomas glances down at Alexander’s scrawny arms, rolls his eyes, and resigns himself to losing three bucks.

Alexander picks up the mallet, winks at Thomas, and swings. Thomas, leaning up against the metal railing, watches the little clay puck travel up, up, up…

The ring of the bell manages to take Thomas off guard even though he was watching it happen. He blinks up at it in shock as Alexander smirks, grabs his prize from the barker, and trots over to Thomas.

“And you didn’t think I could do it,” he says, sliding out from behind the metal fencing.

“I said no such thing,” Thomas protests, guilty indignation boiling under his skin. Alexander cocks an eyebrow.

“Ah, but you were _thinking_ it,” he says, still smirking. Thomas narrows his eyes, looking down at him with his purple plush toy in his arms.

“Alright, asshole, it’s _on_ ,” he says. Alexander’s eyebrows rise as Thomas pulls out his wallet. He’d managed to break his big bills down at a bank earlier, so he fishes sixty dollars’ worth in tens out and hands the stack to Alexander. “Sixty bucks, twenty games, each. We’ll meet back right here when we’re done. Whoever has the most prizes at the end wins.”

“Wins what?” Alexander asks. Thomas smiles devilishly, and Alexander gets the message - if the way his eyes light up is any indication anyway. Then he glances down at the wallet still in Thomas’ hands.

“How do I know you won’t cheat?” he asks. “You’ve got all the cash.” Thomas thinks for a minute and then quickly counts his money.

“I’ve got three hundred in here, two-forty after my sixty. I’ll let you count when we get back to make sure.”

Alexander hesitates. “Let me count _before_.” So Thomas sighs, takes out his sixty and lets Alexander count his money, careful to watch his hands to make sure Alexander doesn’t take any more out. When Alexander is satisfied, he hands Thomas back his wallet.

“Alright, just know I’ll be checking,” Alexander says, then starts to take off into the brightly-colored booths. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“The one you’ve got already doesn’t count!” He calls, only to earn Alexander’s middle finger stuck up in the air. He laughs, then takes off in the opposite direction. He looks for a shooting game, or maybe Balloons and Darts, anything with projectiles. Start of easy on something he’s sure he’ll win.

\--------------

Thomas gets evicted from the shooting gallery after three consecutive wins in a row. _Carnival booths just aren’t made for trained FBI agents_ , Thomas figures as he picks his way along the aisles. He’s looking for a pegboard of balloons, and on the way he spots Alexander at a simple bottle toss. He’s down to a single bottle with two softballs still in his hands.

Thomas watches as he just misses it with his first toss, but nails it with his second try. Alexander smiles as the worker pulls what looks like a stuffed giraffe from the wall and hands it to him. Alexander stuffs the toy in a clear plastic bag by his feet, and when he looks up he sees Thomas standing there.

Alexander smirks, hiking the bag up and over his shoulder. Thomas just smiles back, lifting his own bag into the air. Alexander’s smirk falls and he spins, heading into the crowd of booths again.

\--------------

By the time Thomas uses all of his sixty dollars, he’s collected twelve various stuffed animals and pillows, eight of his tries failing but twelve is a great haul for dumb carnival games. He’s honestly surprised none of them seemed rigged.

Thomas isn’t waiting for ten minutes before Alexander appears through the crowd, juggling _two_ plastic bags over his shoulders. Thomas’ heart sinks as Alexander plops them on the ground and looks up at him victoriously.

“Ten,” he announces. “Count ‘em and weep.” Thomas raises his eyebrows, counting the stuffed prizes through the bags. Alexander seemed to have simply collected the largest prizes he could, hence the need for two bags. Alexander is still smirking as Thomas looks up, glances at his own bag and holds it towards him.

“Twelve,” Thomas says. Alexander’s eyes widen, he snatches the bag from Thomas and digs through it. Thomas watches, smile growing as Alexander throws the bag to the ground.

“Goddamnit!” he hisses. “Let me see your wallet.” Thomas willingly hands it over and when Alexander confirms that Thomas didn’t in fact cheat, he tosses it into Thomas’ chest.

“I even got the girl at the ring-toss to give me a free play,” he grumbles. Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“Oh, so _who_ ended up cheating?”

Alexander groans. “I didn’t even _win_ anything there, it doesn’t matter.” Thomas laughs as Alexander gently kicks one of his bags. “What are we going to do with these?” He asks. Thomas purses his lips, thinking.

“I mean, we could just keep them,” Thomas offers. Alexander cocks an eyebrow.

“Do you really want to keep _twenty-two_ stuffed animals?” He asks. Thomas looks down at the plastic bags, sees the plush face of a blue gorilla looking back at him.

“Well, what else are we going to do?” Thomas asks. Alexander frowns, looking around the crowd.

“We’ll find someone to take them,” he announces. Thomas blinks, confused. Alexander picks up his two bags and nudges Thomas’ back to him. “Come on, carry yours.”

‘Someone’ turns out to be any child Alexander comes across as he walks along the fairgrounds. The first time Alexander stops a young family, Thomas is wary, but then he sees the way the little boy’s face lights up at the prospect of a free stuffed bear.

“Thank you,” the mom says as the boy excitedly shows his father the toy. Alexander smiles.

“It’s no problem ma’am,” he says, then grabs Thomas’ hand and leads him along through the crowd. Thomas watches Alexander carefully hand out their prizes one-by-one until there’s nothing in their bags but the original little monkey Alexander had won from the Test Your Strength.

“I’m keeping this little guy,” Alexander explains as he wads up the empty bags. Thomas shrugs.

“That’s fine,” he says. “The only reason we had the others was that you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Oh, okay, and your little competitive streak had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“You opened that damn mouth of yours and woke it up,” Thomas counters. Alexander smirks, then leans in close.

“Do you want me to show you what else my mouth can do?” He purrs. “I still have to give you _your_ prize after all.”

Thomas gulps and nods. Alexander grabs Thomas by the wrist and pulls him around the back of the pirate ship and into the small forest behind the fair. They run, tripping over roots and rocks far enough away so as not to get caught before Alexander slams Thomas into a tree and drops to his knees.

Thomas learns _exactly_ what else Alexander’s mouth is good for.

\--------------

“Everything alright?” Theo asks, whispering in the darkened apartment. Aaron holds the curtain open slightly, just enough to peek out.

“They’re shooting again,” Aaron whispers back. Theo can see where the rain-distorted street light dances across his face. Gunshots and thunder both sound, flashes of light the only clue as to which is which.

“Then get away from the window boy,” Abigail grunts, lowering herself to the floor next to Theo. Her old, wrinkly legs extend past her nightgown as she manages to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground. Theo, sitting cross legged, daughter asleep in her lap, looks over at her boyfriend.

“Aaron, come sit down,” she says. Aaron reluctantly drops the curtain, slowly so as not to attract outside attention. He sighs, dim light streaming in red through the fabric.

“They won’t start randomly shooting a fifth-floor window,” Abigail says. “Not since they’re trapped in a fire-fight.”

Aaron slowly backed away from the window, unable to tear his eyes away. Teddy wiggled in her sleep, Theo holding tightly to her. “Aaron, please,” she says.

Aaron finally turned around, the slight frown on his face speaking volumes. “I don’t like them being so close,” he says. Theo nods.

“Neither do I, baby,” she replies. “Nothing we can do about it.”

Aaron sighs and crosses the living room to his girlfriend and daughter. He picks his way around the coffee table, overturned so the top faces the window in a makeshift barrier. The couch is against the door, Abigail’s kitchen chairs stacked atop it.

Abigail offers him a glass of water and a few crackers, which Aaron rejects with a shake of his head. “If we’re going to be up, might as well eat,” the older woman says.

“Can’t,” Aaron explains. Abigail purses her lips but just pops one of the crackers in her mouth.

“I’ll pay Joshua next door to run and get us groceries,” she says through her mouthful. “We’re running out of food.”

“How long is this going to last?” Theo asks, not for the first time.

“I don’t know,” Aaron replies, not for the first time either.

“And you’re sure this isn’t…”

Aaron kneels down, reaches over and puts a gentle hand on Theo’s arm. “It’s not because of us. Whatever Hamilton and Jefferson did, _that’s_ what caused this.”

“Alex and Jefferson wouldn’t have been in harm's way if we hadn’t run,” Theo says.

“Well, that’s a bunch of bullshit,” Abigail cuts in. Theo and Aaron both snap their heads to look at her. She dusts crumbs off her chest. “Agent Jefferson was here because of Safe Harbors and Alexander is Alexander. They were _always_ in harm’s way.”

“But…” Theo trails and Abigail turns those old, wise eyes on her.

“But nothing. You’ve done what’s best for you. Whatever _they_ did is not on you.”

Theo pauses, looking down at the child in her arms. “Okay,” she says, even as her heart aches.

The echoes of a gunshot makes the group jump, only to be gone and replaced by the heavy patter of rain on the apartment window. Theo sighs, trying to force her body to relax before Teddy wakes. A crying baby is the last thing they need right now.

Aaron finally lowers himself all the way to the floor, pulling Theo into his side. “It’s not our fault,” Aaron says into her hair. “We’ll be okay.”

Theo just holds Teddy close, hoping with all her might that Aaron is right on both counts. In her pocket burns a single slip of paper with Agent Wayles-Skelton’s number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it ladies and gents, fluff/hell month is over. You better hold on to what fluff I've given you, there's so very little if any at all after this. Best get ready for the fallout. The fun starts next week.
> 
> See you Friday


	47. Place Your Bets Everyone: The Death Roulette Spins Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking through Fluff/Hell month, here's a monstrosity of a chapter to make up for the relative shortness of the last four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyyyyy so there's explicit smut again. Once again, there's no plot with the exception of an exploration as to how Thomas and Alexander's relationship stands before they leave. You can understand it without the smut, but I thought it appropriate.
> 
> If you want to skip it; read up until "“Please,” he begs. “We can go right after, just one last time.”" and then skip right on down to "Alexander has this small blissful, almost wistful smile on his face as Thomas gathers him into his arms."

The next morning is like the last few: they lie in bed for an hour together before their grumbling stomachs force Thomas and Alexander up for breakfast. Thomas is starting to get used to this, to waking up with Alexander in his arms. It was almost domestic; if you could forget they were practical fugitives in a hotel room.

“Grab me a shirt,” Thomas says, pulling up his jeans. Alexander grunts an acknowledgment, then Thomas hears drawers sliding open.

“We need to do laundry…” Alexander says, trailing off slightly. There’s a silent pause as Thomas buckles his pants.

“Everything alright?” Thomas asks, glancing over his shoulder. Alexander - still shirtless himself - is hovering over the open drawer that holds Thomas’ shirts, peering down into it, fist clenched around a piece of brown fabric.

“Thomas?” Alexander asks, turning towards him slowly. “You didn’t tell me you had a phone on you.”

Thomas’ heart stops. In one of Alexander’s hands is his phone, and Thomas takes what he hopes are confident steps towards him.

“Yeah, how else is James going to call us?” He says, trying to cover. He reaches for the device, but Alexander pulls it closer to him.

“I thought you said you weren’t in contact with him.”

“I’m not, it’s been off and hidden the entire time.”

Alexander glances up. “Then how would you know when he called you?” Thomas winces, and Alexander’s eyes narrow.

Thomas swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “It was for emergencies. James is going to call the hotel -”

“Then why did we ever leave if we were waiting on a call?” Alexander asks. “How come you let us go out for _hours_ if James was supposed to call the hotel?”

“I, uh -” Thomas stutters. Alexander’s gentle expression is far gone, collapsed into suspicion and anger.

“Thomas, tell me the goddamn truth right now,” Alexander says. “What are we doing up here and what are we waiting for? Is James even going to call?”

Thomas looks down at Alexander, looks down at where his fingers are curled around Thomas’ phone, looks down at where Alexander is glaring up at him and he crumbles. “I… I lied to you.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Alexander grunts. Thomas takes a breath. _Might as well rip the whole bandage off,_ he thinks.

“No one knows we’re up here,” he says. “No one knows where we are or anything.”

Alexander blinks. “Do they know we’re okay?”

Thomas winces, looking down at the floor. “I haven’t talked to anyone but you since I got Maria’s address from Abigail.”

Alexander’s eyes widen. “You mean to tell me, that all _anyone_ back in the city knows, is that you and I _vanished_ after you went off to rescue me from King?” Thomas nods, jaw clamped shut. “You didn’t tell anyone that we were even _alive_?”

“I panicked, okay?!” Thomas says, glancing up. “We were in danger, and we needed to get out, and I couldn’t call James so I… I just got us out!” Thomas takes a step back, throwing his arms out in a wide shrug.

Alexander’s jaw hangs open in shock. “What the _fuck_ Thomas?!” He shouts, firing the phone into Thomas’ stomach. Thomas fumbles to catch it before it hits the floor as Alexander continues to shout at him. “What the _actual fuck?!_ You just… didn’t tell anyone? You left Maria to die and didn’t tell anyone we were okay?”

“I panicked,” Thomas protests weakly. He sounds pathetic even to himself.

“Turn on your phone. We have to call someone,” Alexander says. “Washington, John, _James_ , anyone! Let them know _we’re still alive_.”

Thomas’ heart pounds in his ears. “We can’t!” he responds. “We turn this on, James and the rest of my team will know where we are. They’ll come get us.”

“Good!” Alexander shoots back.

“No, not ‘good,’” Thomas says.

“Thomas, if you won’t do it, I will. Give it to me” Alexander holds out his hand expectantly and when Thomas doesn’t hand it to him, he scowls. “Give me the damn _phone!_ ” Alexander demands. “We have to let someone know we’re okay, and then we have to go back into the city.”

Thomas freezes, still holding his phone tightly. “No, we… we can’t go back,” he says. His heart sinks as Alexander glares at him.

“And why not?”

“It’s… it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, and?” Alexander hisses. “You’re a cop, I’m a gangster, shit’s going to be _dangerous_.”

“We don’t know what’s going on down there,” Thomas counters. “We could be walking back into a war.”

“Even more reason to go back!” Alexander snaps. “They’ll need every man they can get!”

“Alexander,” Thomas pleads. Alexander glares daggers up at him.

“Those are my friends,” he says. “Those are _your_ friends.” Thomas swallows. Alexander hesitates, then slowly lets go of Thomas’ arm. “At least turn the phone back on. Find out what’s going on.”

Silence stretches between them as Alexander stares, jaw set and determined, at Thomas. They’re both breathing hard as Thomas slowly raises his phone to where he can see it. The screen is still dark, and Thomas really doesn’t want to turn it on. He doesn’t want to know. But then Alexander clears his throat, and Thomas takes a breath. He puts his thumb against the power button and waits.

The screen lights up white as it turns on, somehow not out of battery despite being off and uncharged for days. Thomas’ chest tightens as the seconds tick by, an agonizing decade seems to pass before the screen switches to the familiar lock screen - a nondescript gray that he uses when he’s undercover. Thomas’ breath is caught in this throat for the long moment where nothing happens. He almost relaxes, almost turns it around to show Alexander that everything’s calm -

 _Buzz buzz buzz buzz_. An avalanche of notifications comes cascading down Thomas’ screen, his phone buzzing hard in his hand. For a second, Thomas thinks it’s going to shut down or overheat with how hard it’s struggling to process everything at once. It starts to heat up in his palm, there are so many messages and missed calls coming through.

When it finally stops, Thomas glances up to find Alexander staring at him with one eyebrow cocked. He purses his lips, steadies himself, and looks down. The topmost message is a text from James, dated last night:

**Text me back please. I don’t want to start searching the rivers for your body.**

Thomas’ heart stops, his eyes widen. “What?” Alexander asks. With shaking hands, Thomas unlocks his phone and opens James’ log. There are dozens of missed texts from Steuben, Sally, Louis, Martha, even _Lafayette_ has sent him something, but Thomas focuses on James. He starts to scroll up, looking for his last text to James.

He goes through days of messages, catching phrases as he goes. He doesn’t read until he hits his last outgoing message and then starts down.

**From: James:**

**Just woke up. Where are you?**

**From: James:**

**Thomas, answer me.**

Those are familiar, the ones he got while in the motel days go.

**From: James:**

**Louis says you left the condo in the middle of the night. He also said something about bandages. Where are you?**

**From: James:**

**Lafayette is calling me, asking about you and Hamilton. Text me back.**

He jumps forward a bit, scanning and skimming rather than reading.

**From: James:**

**Someone dropped off a head at The Frenchman. A woman named Maria Reynolds. Laurens says you were looking for her last night. What is going on? Call me.**

**From: James:**

**King is demanding the Sons hand you and Hamilton over. Tallmadge says something happened to Seabury, but doesn’t know what yet. Call me.**

**From: James:**

**Lafayette told me about what happened with you, King and Seabury. Call. Me.**

He keeps jumping, breath starting to pick up.

**From: James:**

**Did you turn your phone off? We can’t get a trace on it.**

**…..**

**From: James:**

**At least text me, let me know you’re okay. No one can find you or Hamilton. We’re all really worried.**

**…..**

**From: James:**

**John Laurens and Nathaniel Green are dead. Text me, please.**

Thomas almost chokes on air, manages to keep calm enough not to make Alexander come to look. He still glances up, sees the worry mixing with the anger on the other man’s face.

**From: James:**

**Farnese wants to pronounce you dead too. Don’t make us have to do that.**

**From: James:**

**Please don’t make us have to do that.**

**…..**

**From: James:**

**You have twenty minutes to get in contact or we’re pronouncing you and Hamilton dead.**

**From: James:**

**Ten minutes.**

**From: James:**

**Thomas, I swear if you don’t call in the next two minutes I am going to kill you myself.**

**From: James:**

**Last chance.**

**From: James:**

**Fine. You’re dead. Happy?**

And so it goes. Thomas learns that Lafayette murdered Lee, that Adams was shot in his own home, that people are _dying_ by the minute. He watches James grow more desperate.

**From: James:**

**Day two of you being dead. Steuben won’t say your name and Sally trashed your map. I’m sorry, I didn’t have the heart to stop her. I think Martha is trying to put it back up.**

**From: James:**

**I just had to call your mom and tell her that you’re dead. That was the worst thing I ever had to do and I'm going to kick your ass for that.**

**From: James:**

**Someone’s going to have to tell her you were tortured before you died too. She can’t find out from some legal proceeding. Goddamn it.**

**…..**

**From: James:**

**I can’t stop it. I can’t stop anyone from dying and the way this is going, King is just going to crush us all underfoot.**

**From: James:**

**I don’t know what to do anymore.**

**…..**

**From: James:**

**Revere wants to start combing the water for you and Hamilton. If you’re actually gone, then maybe finding your bodies will stop this. I still don’t want to believe you’re dead.**

**From: James:**

**Text me back please. I don’t want to start searching the rivers for your body.**

And like that, the chat ends. Hundreds of messages over the last five days. James talking to someone, to _Thomas,_ that he presumes dead. He doesn’t even want to look through the others, but he glances at them. They’re much shorter than James.

Lafayette’s stop after the first day. Steuben's are concerned, growing more desperate until they too suddenly stop. Sally’s are innocuous until suddenly they’re in all caps and almost incoherent. Martha’s are deceptively calm. Louis’ warn him he going to tell James what he saw unless he texts back.

He even has a lonely text from an unknown number: **is lex okay? - laurens**

He has upwards of forty missed calls, and Thomas scrolls through the list; they’re mostly from James. Thomas stares at the list of missed calls, chest tight, unwilling to listen to the voicemails. He looks up at Alexander with wide eyes.

“And?” Alexander asks, apprehension across his face.

“It’s bad,” Thomas says, forcing the words out of his dry throat. Alexander’s eyes widen just a fraction, the man obviously struggling to keep any emotion hidden.

“How bad?”

“Bad.” Thomas glances at his phone. _Laurens is dead_. He looks back up at Alexander. He has to tell him. He _has_ to tell Alexander.  “People are dead,” he says instead. “L- Lots of them.”

“Why? _How?_ ”

Thomas hesitates, flips back to James’ log, and scrolls a bit. “Okay, so…”

“Thomas,” Alexander warns.

“Apparently, King is hunting someone,” he says. “He’s been tearing through Manhattan to find them.”

“Who?” Alexander asks though the tone in his voice says he already knows.

“Us.” The word sounds like the final nail in the coffin. Thomas looks up at Alexander, his expression already pleading for Alexander _not_ to say what Thomas already knows he’s going to say.

Alexander puts his hand out. “Let me see,” he demands. Thomas clutches his phone tightly.

“No,” he says. Alexander opens his mouth to protest, and Thomas rushes to speak first. “This is my work phone, there’s classified stuff on here!” _And the Laurens thing_ , Thomas’ brain adds.

Alexander pauses, then his jaw sets. “Fine, whatever. We have to go back.” Alexander spins on his heels and goes for the chest of drawers. He pulls open his shirt drawer and grabs the first one on top. “Look up the bus schedule.”

Thomas quietly shuts his phone off again and holds it against his chest. He simply watches Alexander pull his shirt on and tie his hair back. When Alexander turns around, his expression is hard, angry, determined. “So, when’s the next bus out of town?”

“No,” Thomas says simply. Alexander starts, shocked.

“No?”

“I said no.” Thomas’ hand clenches around his phone. “We’re not going back.”

Alexander blinks like he’s still processing what Thomas means. “Thomas, we’re going back to the city. They _need_ us there.”

“We can’t go back, King will _kill_ us.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m pretty hard to kill.” Alexander folds his arms over his chest, glaring up at Thomas. “We’re going back.”

“And I say we’re not.”

Alexander lets out a noise of exasperation. “What else would you have us _do_ Thomas? Keep running?”

“Yes!” Thomas exclaims. “Yes! We keep running! We go west, get out of here for good. We could start over, you and me. Just us, somewhere we can be safe and happy.”

Alexander stares at Thomas, eyes the size of saucers. “I… I can’t do that. I can’t abandon the only family I’ve ever really had. I can’t leave John or Laf or any of them to _die_. Especially not if I can do something about it.”

 _Too late for Laurens,_ Thomas thinks. Instead, he says: “You _doing_ something about it is _getting yourself killed_.”

“I’m not going to die,” Alexander scoffs. “I’ve survived worse.”

“Worse?! What is _worse_ than being hunted by _King_?”

Alexander narrows his eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“Unless you’ve managed to survive a death-sentence before, I don’t see what _worse_ you could have survived!” Thomas shoots back.

“A goddamn hurricane couldn’t take me, King is no force of nature,” Alexander responds. “King is not a lethal infection. King is a _man._ A man can easily be shot. You can’t shoot a storm.”

“So can you! You can be shot just as easily.”

“I have been.” Alexander motions at his shoulder. “I was fine.” Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Alexander, going back means walking into a war where our side is already _losing_. I can’t do that. I can’t let _you_ do that.”

Alexander looks up at him, fire in his eyes. “Fine. You can stay here. Hell, you can run away for all I care. I’m going back, and you can’t stop me.” With that, Alexander turns, going to march out the door.

“That’s not fair,” Thomas croaks. “That’s not fair and you know it.”

Alexander stops. “How isn’t that fair? If you don’t want to -”

“I promised you I wouldn’t leave you, so you threatening to walk out on me _isn’t goddamn fair!”_ Thomas says, voice steadily rising until he ends in a shout. “It’s not fair Alexander! You’re not giving me a choice!”

“Of course I’m giving you a choice,” Alexander says, turning back around.

“Not you’re not. Not really.” Thomas can feel himself starting to choke up. “Not if you really intend to leave. Because if you go, I _have_ to follow. There’s no goddamn choice because I will always choose you and if that means following you into death I -” Thomas’ voice catches, his throat tight.

Alexander looks at him, determined expression falling as Thomas tries to hold back the tears. “If you leave… if you leave I’ll come with you, but you could be asking me to watch you die and…” Thomas hangs his head, his hands fall to his sides. “I don’t want to lose you,” Thomas finishes.

Alexander quietly crosses the room to before him. Slowly he raises one hand and puts it on Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas looks up to find that the fire in Alexander’s eyes has quelled to a low, but still intense burn. Like embers in a blacksmith’s oven.

“You’re not going to lose me,” Alexander says. Thomas opens his mouth to argue but Alexander speaks first. “You are _not_ going to lose me, not if I have something to say about it. And I like to think I have _everything_ to say about it. We’re going to go back, fix this, and _then_ we can start our lives together.”

Thomas’ eyes widen, his breath hitches. “You mean it?” Alexander nods.

“Of course. I love you,” he says. “And when this is over, I promise it will just be you and me. And we won’t have to leave our friends and family behind. Everything will be just fine.”

Thomas wants to believe it. Oh _god_ does Thomas want to believe it. He looks in Alexander’s eyes and all the little voices of doubt in his head go silent. Slowly, he nods. “Okay,” he says. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Everything’s going to be alright,” Alexander repeats. If Thomas didn’t know better, he’d say it sounded like they were trying to convince themselves. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Thomas looked deep into Alexander’s eyes.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he whispers, one hand coming up to cradle Alexander’s cheek. Slowly, he leans down to kiss him, just the faintest brush of their lips together.

“Okay,” Alexander affirms, voice just as quiet, leaning up into Thomas’ lips. For a moment, the kiss stays light, Thomas repeating the mantra _it’s all going to be okay_ in his head. Thomas snakes an arm around Alexander’s back, pulling him in as close as he can be. Alexander hums, his hands coming to rest on Thomas’ chest.

Thomas takes a slow step back, pulling Alexander with him. Alexander breaks the kiss as Thomas keeps moving backward. “What are you doing?” He asks. Thomas looks down at him.

“One last time,” Thomas says. “Just before we go back, one last time.”

Alexander looks up at him, standing his ground. “Thomas,” he sighs, exasperated. Thomas frowns.

“Please,” he begs. “We can go right after, just one last time.”

Alexander hesitates. Thomas takes his hand gently, pulling Alexander back in close. For a moment, Alexander just looks up at him, then he nods and leans up to kiss Thomas. Thomas relaxes into it, at the same time starting to once again move backward. This time, Alexander follows, moving with Thomas until the taller man’s legs catch on the bed.

Thomas sits, scooting backward to give Alexander room to climb onto his lap and straddle his thighs. One of Alexander’s hands finds its way into Thomas’ hair, pulling Thomas’ face upwards. Thomas’ hands find their way under Alexander’s shirt, mapping out every inch of skin by touch. For all the times they’ve done this, it’s always a novelty. But it’s starting to become a familiar one. A strange mixture of home and foreign territory Thomas needs to explore each time.

They break for a moment to slide Alexander’s shirt off, but then they reconnect their lips. With his eyes shut, Thomas slides one hand into Alexander’s hair and works out the hair tie. Alexander’s hair cascades down, and Thomas tangles his fingers into the softness there. This, right here, is all Thomas wants. If he could capture this moment in a jar and carry it around with him forever, he would.

And then Alexander pulls back, his pupils blown wide with want. Thomas looks up at Alexander, chest heaving. Alexander won’t meet his eyes, gaze flicking all around Thomas’ face but not directly at him. Thomas hears him mutter something, sees his lips move, but he can’t quite make out the words.

“What?” Thomas asks. Alexander swallows, but when he speaks it’s louder, but still, Thomas can’t discern what he said. Thomas frowns, the hand not carded through Alexander’s hair coming up to catch him by the chin. He gently forces Alexander to look at him, holding his chin steady until they’re eye to eye. “You’ll have to repeat that one more time.”

“I want you,” Alexander says, voice still low like he’s admitting some dark secret, “I want you to make me yours.”

For a second Thomas, is confused. Alexander is already his, isn’t he? Alexander is looking at him with such _want_ , but Thomas can’t figure it out until Alexander grabs the hand holding his chin and slides it onto his ass.

“Oh,” Thomas breathes, and Alexander nods. Thomas swallows, feeling his dick stir in his pants. Without breaking eye contact, Thomas gently turns them around and situates Alexander onto the center of the bed, hovering over him.

Thomas leans down to kiss him again, trying to press to memory the way Alexander’s lips feel on his and mapping out the inside of Alexander’s mouth. Alexander’s hands tangle themselves in Thomas’ hair, trying to pull him as close as possible. He wraps his legs around Thomas’ waist, and Thomas is completely on top of him, kissing him as hard as he can.

But there’s more to Alexander than just his mouth, and Thomas breaks the kiss to trail his lips slowly over his jaw. He makes sure to cover every inch of Alexander’s skin, nibbling on his ears before making his way down the column of his throat.

With one hand, Thomas gently works one of Alexander’s hands out of his hair simply to hold it. “What are you doing?” Alexander asks as Thomas kisses along the ridge of his collarbone. Thomas just shushes him, the hand not holding Alexander’s ghosting along Alexander’s side.

Thomas laves his tongue around one of Alexander’s nipples and the man’s body jerks. Thomas smirks, repeats the treatment to the other before he goes back to tracing Alexander’s body with his mouth. The harshness of Alexander’s ribs have softened somewhat in the last four days, not much, but he doesn’t feel or look as skeletal anymore. Thomas can still count the ribs under his lips, but they don’t protrude as much.

The hand in Thomas’ hair tightens a bit as Thomas starts to cross the expanse of Alexander’s stomach. Here Alexander’s body is soft and supple, the few days of plenty food doing him so many favors. Thomas’s chin brushes the top of Alexander’s jeans, and he trails a line of kisses along the brim before leaning back.

He has to let go of Alexander’s hand to shed him of his pants and boxers, but the moment they’re off and on the floor, he weaves their fingers back together. With his other hand, he gently spreads Alexander’s legs, the other man’s cock already half-hard. Thomas looks down at Alexander - his glorious, beautiful Alexander - spread open and wanting.

When Thomas starts leaning down, Alexander’s hips twitch upward in anticipation, but Thomas just smirks and scoots even further back. Instead of giving Alexander what he wants, Thomas places a light kiss on the inside of one of Alexander’s ankles, mouthing along his leg upwards until he reaches Alexander’s knee. Then he switches legs, starting the slow journey upwards again.

This time Thomas keeps going upwards, feeling Alexander’s thighs tremble in anticipation. His legs spread just a bit further, inviting Thomas to go where he needs to be. But still, when Thomas reaches where Alexander’s thigh meets his body, he goes back to the other knee. Alexander lets out a whimper.

“Oh come on,” Alexander breaths, and Thomas smirks against his skin. He glances upwards to find Alexander glaring at the ceiling, one hand tugging at his own hair. Thomas finishes his journey up this leg, and Alexander pulls his hand insistently. Thomas chuckles and crawls back up Alexander’s body for another kiss.

Alexander melts into this one, needy, pulling Thomas in while rutting his hips upwards. They stay like that for a minute, Alexander grinding himself against Thomas’ leg. The kiss is greedy, Alexander doing every ounce of begging he normally would in the way their lips mash together.

When Thomas finally pulls away, Alexander whines, but Thomas efficiently makes his way downward again, moving in a straight line down and finally, _finally,_ gets where he knows Alexander wants him to be.

Thomas mouths along the length of Alexander’s cock, working it up the last bit it needs to be fully hard before latching his lips around the head. Alexander lets out a moan, the hand still holding Thomas’ squeezing.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Alexander mutters as Thomas’ tongue dances in a swirl around the head. Then he starts to sink further down, taking every inch of Alexander in. Just before Thomas manages to make it all the way to the hilt, Alexander’s hips jolt upwards, looking for just the tiniest bit more.

Thomas lays his free arm over Alexander’s hips, holding him down as Thomas starts to bob his head back and forth. He looks upwards, sees the way Alexander is watching him, the fire in Alexander’s eyes making him shudder.

It’s in that moment that Thomas decides that he wants to taste Alexander, wants to make the other man come before he even tries to get anywhere inside him just in case. So he gets Alexander all the way down his throat and swallows around him, cheeks hollowed out.

Alexander’s grip tightens even further. “Thomas, goddamn,” he says, a moan tearing its way out of his chest. Thomas starts to move a little faster, tongue flitting against the bottom of Alexander’s cock. He presses it flat against the slit before taking it all back down his throat again. “Fuck, just like that, please.”

Thomas hums around the dick in his mouth, earning a groan as Alexander throws his head back. _He’s so gorgeous,_ Thomas thinks. Head back, throat exposed, eyes screwed shut as the grip on Thomas’ hand turns almost painful.

“Thomas,” Alexander pants, the beginning of a chant comprised of just Thomas’ name. The sound - his name tumbling from Alexander’s lips, wrecked and needy - goes right to Thomas’ own dick. Alexander’s chant grows in fervor as Thomas sucks as hard as he can, swallowing one last time before Alexander’s hand spasms and then he’s coming hard.

Thomas feels Alexander’s cock pulse as salty cum floods his mouth and shoots down his throat. Thomas willingly swallows it all, everything Alexander gives him. Alexander shudders as he rides out the last of his orgasm, eyes trailing down to Thomas again and Thomas makes a show of swallowing the last bit.

Alexander groans as he body goes limp and Thomas’ mouth slides off his cock. Thomas gives himself a second to catch his breath as he gently crawls back up to hold Alexander. Alexander’s chest is still heaving, breathing hard even with the blissed-out expression on his face.

Thomas himself is achingly hard, but he ignores it for the moment to let Alexander slowly come down. He runs his hands through Alexander’s hair gently, pressing loving kisses to his forehead and nose. Alexander curls into the touch, the tremors in his body fading as he catches his breath.

And then Alexander looks up and connects their lips, kissing Thomas lazily as his limbs find strength again. When he pulls back, he says: “I said I wanted - “

“I know,” Thomas interrupts, “Give yourself a minute and we’ll get there.”

Alexander just nods and goes back to kissing Thomas. At first, it stays languid as Alexander settles back into himself. Thomas waits until Alexander starts to deepen it before he does anything. And when Alexander’s tongue flits against Thomas’ lips, asking for entrance, Thomas takes that as his cue.

Before Thomas can pull away, however, Alexander’s hands find their way to his waist. Alexander grunts, two fingers hooking into one of Thomas’ belt loops and tugging. Thomas gets the message, and he pulls away and clambers off the bed to take his pants off.

Alexander whines, making a grabby motion for Thomas. “Shush, I’ll be right there,” Thomas says as he pushes the waist of his jeans down. His underwear follows shortly, and he can feel Alexander’s eyes on him as he goes for the nightstand where they’ve stashed the pharmacy-store lube and condoms. Thomas dumps them on the bed, then grabs a pillow from the still-unused second bed in the room.

Alexander looks at him curiously as Thomas gently lifts him up to slide the pillow under his waist. “Okay, now what -” Alexander’s sentence breaks off into a moan as Thomas dives down and licks a stripe across his hole. “Oh, okay, oh _god_ ,” Alexander pants as Thomas teases the rim with the tip of his tongue.

Just like with everything else, Thomas starts off slow, listening as carefully as possible to the sounds that come tumbling out of Alexander’s mouth. He circles Alexander’s entrance, feeling the tight ring of muscle relax even just the slightest bit before he pushes the tip in.

Alexander’s back arches off the bed and Thomas grabs his waist to keep him still as he flicks his tongue in and out. Each time, he presses in just a bit farther until his lips are around Alexander’s hole and Thomas is as deep as he can get it. Alexander squirms, prompting Thomas to hold him down harder.

“Oh fuck,” Alexander mutters among a litany of other curses. Thomas shuts his eyes and focuses on the noises, the veritable song Alexander is singing for him. It’s another part of Alexander to commit to memory, and Thomas promises never to forget. He wiggles his tongue inside Alexander and revels in the whine he elicits.

Thomas eventually pulls back, eyes scanning the body in front of him as his hand fishes for the small bottle of lube. Alexander cracks open his eyes, looking up at Thomas and something flashes in those eyes when he sees Thomas gently slather lube onto his fingers. Thomas smiles reassuringly, dips down for a quick kiss, and then pulls back so he can watch Alexander’s face when he gently presses the tip of his finger inside Alexander.

Alexander’s eyes fly open, his jaw dropping in a silent moan as Thomas gently pushes his finger in. He gets all the way down to the first knuckle before he pulls out, then trusts in gently. Just like with his tongue, Thomas gently works himself deeper and deeper, starting to swirl and stretch Alexander out the best he can with just one finger.

Alexander can’t form coherent words, his hands gathering in the sheets underneath him as he whines and moans. Thomas can feel him start to relax around his finger, and when the next time he pulls out he adds a bit more lube and presses two fingers inside.

Alexander’s whole body jerks, and Thomas freezes. He waits, carefully watching Alexander’s face as the other man gets used to the intrusion. A few worried moments later, Alexander nods. “Come on,” he breathes. “More, please. Move your damn fingers.”

Thomas chuckles. “Okay, okay,” he says, pushing his fingers deeper before starting to scissor and feel around Alexander’s walls. It takes him a second, but then Alexander shudders, clamping down on Thomas with a moan and Thomas knows he’s found what he’s looking for.

So he crooks his fingers, scraping against Alexander’s prostate with each thrust. Alexander squirms, trying to push himself farther down on Thomas’ fingers as he presses against that wonderful spot. And when Thomas adds a third finger, he makes sure one finger ghosts directly where Alexander wants it every time.

But he’s slowly working Alexander open as well, his bent fingers allowing him to spread Alexander open while working his prostate. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Alexander pants, the muscles slowly but surely stretching and loosening. Thomas makes sure to be thorough, he knows he’s big, and hurting Alexander is the very last thing he wants to do.

But eventually, Thomas deems Alexander prepped enough, and he pulls his fingers out. Alexander whines at the loss, but then a moment later his eyes fly open and he looks at where Thomas is struggling to open a condom.

Thomas glances up and sees the way Alexander is eyeing him nervously. Thomas tries to look as reassuring as possible, but he understands. They’ve never done this before, and Alexander watches Thomas roll the condom on warily.

“If you want to stop -”

“No,” Alexander interrupts. “I want this.”

Thomas hesitates, but while Alexander still looks nervous, there’s an undeniable longing and desire in his face that Thomas can’t ignore. So he slathers lube on his cock, gives himself a few jerks and crawls up to kneel between Alexander’s legs. He gently works the pillow out from under Alexander and lines himself up to Alexander’s hole.

“Ready?” Thomas asks. Alexander swallows, takes a breath, and nods. Holding Alexander by the hips, Thomas pushes in, just the tiniest bit. The exquisite heat around the tip of his cock makes a dark part of him want to push in all the way, safety be damned. But instead, Thomas stalls, feeling Alexander work around him as he adjusts.

He waits, watching Alexander carefully as he breathes in deep, lets out a shuddering breath, and then nods. Thomas inches in just a small bit more, pushing the head past the first ring of muscle. Alexander tenses for a moment with a sharp inhale, and Thomas waits until he’s settled again.

And so Thomas goes, highly attuned to every twitch and spasm of Alexander’s body as he slowly works his way in. Alexander’s fingers work the sheets below him and Thomas slides one hand into his hair to cradle his head. “You’re doing so good baby,” Thomas coos, buried halfway in Alexander’s ass.

Alexander opens his eyes, pupils blown wide and hungry. One of his hands disentangles from the sheets and paws at Thomas’ back, fingertips digging in as Thomas pushes in even further. “Fuck,” Alexander grunts.

“Too much?” Thomas asks, quietly. Alexander shakes his head.

“Keep going,” he breathes, and Thomas complies, sliding in so he’s almost all the way in, their bodies almost pressed together. It takes but a few more moments for Thomas to be buried up to the hilt, and he finally lets out a groan of his own.

“Alex,” he moans, looking down at his beautiful boy. But he stays still for the moment, almost hunched over Alex as he waits for the signal to start moving. Alexander, eyes screwed shut again, lies still for a moment. Then his hand disappears from Thomas’ back so he can prop himself up and start moving all on his own.

Alexander starts to fuck himself onto Thomas cock and Thomas’ hand in Alexander’s hair tightens with the pleasure. Alexander lets out the most gorgeous sound, and Thomas keeps his hand tangled there as he pushes Alexander back down onto the bed and takes over.

Slowly, Thomas pulls out only to push back in with the same maddeningly gentle pace. With nowhere else to go, Alexander’s arms wrap around Thomas’ back to hold on as Thomas slowly thrusts into Alexander.

“Oh God,” Thomas mutters lowly, not recognizing his own voice so fueled with want and love. “You’re so good, so wonderful.” Alexander nods as he wraps his legs around Thomas’ waist, trying to press Thomas into him faster. The change in angle must make Thomas push into Alexander’s prostate because Alexander lets out a litany of curses broken by moans.

“My Alexander,” Thomas breathes, hips rotating slowly. He wants this to last, he _needs_ this to last. He can feel Alexander starting to harden again beneath him.

“Please,” Alexander pleads, voice strained.

“What do you need?” Thomas asks.

“More,” is all Alexander can get out. Thomas obliges, even if it’s just a little bit. He picks up the pace, not too much, but enough to make Alexander cry out and move to meet his thrusts.

“You’re so beautiful,” Thomas says reverently. Alexander gasps as Thomas’ cock presses in as deep as it can. “Stunning.”

“Thomas,” Alexander gasps out, pressing into each thrust as best he can. He’s fully hard again, Thomas can feel it between their bodies, weeping precome. Thomas trails the hand not in Alexander’s hair down Alexander’s chest and stomach, Alexander arching into the touch, and then wraps his fingers around Alexander’s dick.

Alexander muffles a scream, clamping his jaw shut tightly. “You sound gorgeous,” Thomas says. “Don’t hold back.” Alexander responds by clenching around Thomas’ dick, and Thomas moans. Alexander catches Thomas in a kiss, leaning up into him. The hand tangled in Alexander’s hair slides down to just between Alexander’s shoulder blades, helping to lift Alexander up and into Thomas’ lap.

Taking the lead, Alexander presses his body into Thomas’, moaning into the kiss as he starts to ride Thomas. He bounces on Thomas’ cock, moving much faster than Thomas had been moving. Thomas moans, starting to twist his hand around Alexander.

Alexander breaks the kiss, pressing his face into Thomas’ neck to gasp; “Thomas, oh god, please.” A groan rips itself from Thomas as Alexander grinds down.

“Mine,” Thomas gasps out. “My perfect Alexander.”

“Yours,” Alexander replies. Thomas can’t take it anymore, he presses them both down into the mattress again. He thrusts into Alexander’s tight heat sharply, reveling in the half-gasp-half-sob Alexander emits.

He pulls out with the same teasing slowness, however, leaving Alexander whimpering until Thomas slams back in, angling himself just right. Alexander’s hands dig into Thomas’ back, pulling Thomas ever impossibly closer. Thomas keeps up the pattern - exquisitely slow out, suddenly back in - matching the movements of his hand on Alexander’s cock with it.

Thomas looks down at his boy, flushed and panting and _needy_. Alexander is wrecked, magnificently so. “I -” Thomas grunts, snapping his hips forward. “I - I - I - I-” The sound catches in Thomas’ throat, the pleasure and sensations and _Alexander_ overwhelming him. But he takes a breath, meets Alexander’s wild gaze, and steadies himself enough for: “I lo-”

Alexander surges up into a kiss, pulling Thomas all the way down with him. They kiss - sloppy but full of passion - until Alexander pulls away. “Not now,” he grunts out. “Not like this.”

And Thomas understands, so he drops his head and focuses on telling Alexander with every movement of his body. Every thrust of his hips, every wrecked sound, is meant to tell Alexander _I love you_. And then Alexander’s fingertips dig into Thomas’ back as hard as they can.

“Thomas,” Alexander pants, face buried into where Thomas’ neck meets his shoulder. Thomas twists his hand around the hilt of the other man’s cock, then dances his fingers around the head and slit. “Thomas, Thomas, _Thomas_.”

Thomas slams one last time into Alexander, and Alexander goes tumbling over the edge for the second time. Alexander bites down on that little portion of skin between Thomas’ shoulder and his neck, muffling his cries as he comes over their stomachs and Thomas’ hand. The full-body shudder and spasm making Alexander clamp down around Thomas.

Thomas’ orgasm hits him like a freight train, crashing through him with so much force and speed his vision goes white. His hips stutter, still fucking in and out of Alexander, but gone is any hint of control. Thomas carries them through their orgasms, only stopping when his body goes boneless on top of Alexander.

For a second, they lie there, the only sound being their heavy breathing. Thomas’ face drops into the mattress beside Alexander’s head. His limbs feel like jello made out of lead, and every breath he takes is laden with the scent of Alexander’s hair.

“You’re heavy,” Alexander says, and Thomas lets out a breathy laugh. Slowly, with shaking limbs Thomas picks himself up and slides off the bed. He fetches one of the hotel washcloths, gets rid of his filled condom, and pads his way back to Alexander on unsteady legs.

“Hotel staff probably hates us,” Thomas mutters as he cleans Alexander up, wiping away the cum on his chest before it can dry. He makes sure to be gentle, pressing as soft as he can until it’s all gone. He takes a moment to clean himself up as well before tossing the washcloth to the ground and lying back down next to Alexander.

Alexander has this small blissful, almost wistful smile on his face as Thomas gathers him into his arms. Alexander looks up at him with those huge eyes, nothing but satisfaction and love shining in them. “Sleep,” he slurs, nuzzling his head into Thomas’ chest. Thomas nods, letting out a deep breath.

Alexander hums, one arm thrown across Thomas’ stomach, eyes fluttering shut. Thomas looks down, his own body heavy with the need to rest. But for the moment, he simply traces every line of Alexander’s body with his eyes, replaying how it sounded when Alexander had been chanting his name in his head.

This could be the last time Thomas ever gets this he knows, and he has to memorize everything now before it’s too late.

\--------------

“Thomas.”

Someone nudges Thomas gently on the shoulder, and Thomas begrudgingly opens his eyes. Alexander hovers over him, half dressed. “Thomas, get up,” he says.

“What time is it?” Thomas asks. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

“Fifteen ‘till noon,” Alexander replies. “We have to leave.”

Thomas shuts his eyes, lets his head fall back on the pillow for a second. “Okay,” he sighs. Alexander hesitates, taking in a breath to speak, but saying nothing for a long moment.

“If we go now we can get lunch before the bus arrives,” Alexander says. Thomas nods, forcing himself to open his eyes and sit up. Alexander’s already packed everything and he’s left Thomas a set of clothes folded on the other bed. Alexander slides on a shirt as Thomas reluctantly stands.

Silently, Thomas gets dressed, listening to Alexander ramble on about the trip he’s managed to map out. They should be back in the city around dinner, without delays. Alexander shoves a bag into Thomas’ arms, slides on Maria’s hoodie, and grabs the other bag.

“Ready?” Alexander asks. Thomas takes a breath, looks around the room one last time, then plants a short kiss on Alexander’s forehead.

“As I’ll ever be,” he replies, forlornly. Alexander smiles; a small, bittersweet thing.

“It’ll all be alright,” Alexander says, taking Thomas’ free hand in his own. “We’ll be safe and nothing is going to separate us.” Thomas nods, squeezing Alexander’s hand.

“It’ll be alright.”

\--------------

Sam had always wondered what it was like to die. What it would feel like to feel yourself slip from your own body and into the aether. There had been many a time when he had been much younger that Sam had _yearned_ to know. Times he’d spent as a boy, knees curled up to his chest, perched in the center of another motel bed waiting for his next John, wondering why - if God existed - he didn’t strike him down where he sat.

But now, Sam didn’t have to open his eyes to understand that he finally knew what dying felt like. It was a deep certainty in his whole body that the only reason he felt so calm and light was that he _had_ to be dying. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of sleep, but a deeper sleep than Sam had ever known.

For a moment, he considers letting himself fall right off the edge. It would be _so easy_. But, he’s conscious for the moment, and with the knowledge that whatever he does now will be the last thing he ever does, Sam cracks open his eyes. He doesn’t want the last sight he ever had to be half dark and swimming with pain.

It’s only then, trying to focus his sight that he remembers that he likely doesn’t have two eyes anymore. He’s just got the one. The thought _should_ make him panic, should make him upset at the very least. But the moment he comes to the realization he’s half blind, Sam has already accepted it. It’s not like he’ll be around very long for it to really matter to him.

“Sam?” George asks. Sam would recognize that voice anywhere. In a cacophony of voices, Sam could pick out George’s in an instant. It doesn’t matter that the inside of his head is so weightless, Sam still knows the sound of his beloved.

Sam manages to focus his eye on the drop ceiling above him just in time for George’s face to slide into view. “Sam?” he asks again, worry dripping from the single word.

“George,” Sam says, as loud as his weak voice will let him. George breaks out into a huge smile above him. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks pale, but he’s beaming.

“Sammy, oh, you’re awake,” George replies, relief flooding his voice. “I knew you’d wake up. I just knew it.” Sam offers the best smile he can manage as George keeps talking. “I’m so sorry, my love, the idiot doctors couldn’t save your eye, but we’ll make it work. I’ll get Mulligan to make you something exquisite to hide the scarring.”

“George -”

“You’ll look wonderful and really intimidating, I’m sure. And if anyone says anything, I’ll have their tongue cut out.”

“George -”

“But that’s for later. For now, you just need to rest. You were out for almost five days. I’ll go get a doctor to get you checked out, okay?”

“Georgie!” Sam says, grabbing onto George’s arm as tight as possible with his weak limbs. George stops, looking down at Sam with that beautiful grin still across his face.

“Yes, Sam? Everything alright? Do I need to get some painkillers?” George waits expectantly. Sam takes a breath.

“George, I’m not -” he cuts himself off. George looks so damn _happy_ that Sam is awake. There’s that flicker of boyish joy and hope in his eyes that made Sam fall so hard in the first place and Sam can’t bring himself to ruin it. “...I’m not in pain,” he says instead. And it’s true, his body feels tingly, like every muscle in his body just fell asleep.

“Good!” George says, eyes lighting up even further. “I’ll go get you checked out then.” Sam smiles back, even as he knows what’s really going to happen. Sam grips George’s arm tighter.

“When’s the last time you slept, dear?” Sam asks. George blinks but doesn’t pull his arm away.

“Days ago,” George says. “Someone had to be here to watch over you and James is out hunting the men who did this to you -” George cuts himself off before he gets too angry. “But don’t worry about that or me love. Let’s just go home.”

“In a minute,” Sam says, tugging lightly on George’s arm. “You need to rest.”

“We can rest at home,” George replies. Sam tugs a little harder, George coming to lean over his bed again.

“Just a small nap before we leave?” Sam asks. “You shouldn’t drive so tired.” George hesitates, but Sam gives him the big eyes he knows will make George melt and the other man does. “Come here, sleep right next to me.”

Sam scoots over and pats the empty bed next to him. George obediently crawls into bed beside Sam, wrapping his arms around Sam’s middle like normal. Sam drapes his arm behind George’s head, letting his boyfriend cuddle into his side.

“Just half an hour,” George grumbles, already sleepy just by laying down next to him. Sam nods.

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees, finding the strength inside him to lie just this one last time. George hums.

“You know, after this business with the Sons is over, I want to get married,” George says. Sam’s heart sinks at the words that should make it leap for joy. “I was so scared I was going to lose you that I realized I want to be your husband and I want you to be mine.” His voice is so heavy, sleep-laden, the sound of which is familiar but so strange with the knowledge that this is going to be the last time Sam hears it.

“I want that too,” Sam says, laying his cheek on the top of George’s head. “I want nothing more than that.” And Sam isn’t lying. He wants to marry George. The moment Sam realizes that he doesn’t want to die, his heart breaks. He doesn’t want to go, he wants to stay here with George, but he can actively feel himself falling off that wretched cliff.

George is still muttering, fighting sleep despite everything. “We’ll get married, and we’ll leave New York, and go to back to England. You can plan the wedding, every inch of it, spare no expense. We’ll get a dog, Sam. A dog, and some kids, and we’ll leave all this shit behind for James to take care of, and we’ll get married, in England.”

And Sam just nods along, grateful George’s face is buried against his chest. Sam keeps his eyes locked on the wall behind George, keeping his breathing as even and regular as possible. He feels like he’s holding onto life with his fingertips, praying George falls asleep before he can’t hold on any longer.

“I love you, Sammy,” George says, so quietly and slurred Sam almost doesn’t understand.

“I love you too,” Sam replies, running his hand through George’s hair as the man finally surrenders to sleep. _He must have been exhausted to fall asleep so quickly,_ Sam thinks. He looks down at George. He looks so peaceful asleep, unlike any other moment of his life.

George snores, lightly, like a little puppy against Sam's’ chest. Sam leans down to press a kiss against George’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, tears pricking in his eyes but his body is far too gone to actually cry. “I love you so much and I’m sorry for what I’m going to do.”

With that, Sam shuts his eyes, his last sight on earth being his beautiful boyfriend’s - _fiance’s_ \- face. He’s left a thousand things unfinished - he never found his family, never married George, never figured out if Reynolds liked him too or just George - but none of that matters to him in this moment. He doesn’t regret anything, not here at the end.

Sam holds George as tightly as he can and simply lets go.

\--------------

When George awakens, it’s to a frantic beeping and hands pulling on his shoulders. His eyes snap open and he’s not sure what’s happening. Everything's a blur of white doctor’s gowns and nursing scrubs. “What’s -”

“Sir, you need to move,” comes a stern voice, and George blinks up at the grim face above him. The male nurse is practically pulling George from the bed. George swats his hands away, looking back for his Sammy.

His gorgeous Sammy, eyes shut and face pale, simply looking as if he’s asleep. “What’s happening? Sam?” He asks. The hands are back on him in a second and George thrashes, fighting them off. “Don’t fucking touch me, don’t you know who I am?! Sammy!”

“Let’s go, sir,” the nurse repeats, managing to hook his hands under George’s arms and pull him, struggling, from Sam’s side. For all George can do, for all his power and might and men and riches, he was never a fighter. He might have the muscle, he has the strength, but he’s never thrown a punch in his life.

That doesn’t stop him from trying, from kicking and screaming and throwing elbows at the man trying to drag him from Sam’s beside. “No, let me go you heathen! What the hell is happening?!” he screeches. But George really doesn’t need an answer, not as he is pulled farther away and he can see the doctors and nurses rushing around Sam’s bed, calling orders and numbers and information between each other.

The nurse holding George grunts as George manages to slam his foot into his thigh. “Sir, please, stop struggling,” he says. “I’m _trying_ to help save his life and unless you stop fighting, I’m stuck here holding you back.”

“Give him here,” comes another voice, one that a dim portion of George’s brain recognizes as Reynolds’. The nurse doesn’t hesitate for a moment, pushing George into Reynolds’ waiting, outstretched arms. George finds himself held tightly between strong arms as the nurse rushes back into the fray.

“Come on,” Reynolds says, pulling George out of the room. George squirms, his face pressed into Reynolds’ chest as he tries to punch, hit, kick, do _anything_ to break that hold.

“Let me go!” George demands as Reynolds drags him out into the hallway. “I am your _boss_ , let me go! I’ll have you skinned, castrated, ripped to pieces if you don’t let me go this _instant_.” But still, Reynolds holds on, pulling George across the hall. “Why aren’t you listening, let me go! Let me go to him, Sam needs me!”

George gasps as Reynolds’ hold grows impossibly tighter. His hands scrabble uselessly against Reynolds’ sides. With his head pressed into Reynolds’ chest, he can feel the steady, deep heartbeat thrumming in the man’s chest.

“Boss, let the doctors do their work,” Reynolds says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re useless in there.”

George’s hands turn to fists, but he stops struggling. There’s aching in his body from his thrashing, and if he shuts his eyes, he can _almost_ pretend it’s Sam holding him tight. Almost, of course, Renyolds’ arms are much too thick, his chest too broad, but George is nothing but stubborn.

“Sit down sir,” Reynolds says quietly. “I’ll get you some water…” he trails, looking off over George’s head. George turns, sees the doctor standing at the open door. He makes eye contact with the ragged-looking man. The doctor swallows.

“I’m sorry.”

With that, those two words, George’s entire world shatters. He gets his feet underneath him and pushes out of Reynolds’ hold.

“Boss?” Reynolds asks, but George takes a deep breath.

“Can I see him?” He asks, leveling the doctor with a glare so the other man knows that George’s request isn’t really a request. The doctor’s jaw grits, but he nods. George slowly makes his way back across the hall, feeling as if he’s moving through a dream. The doctor stands aside so George can go through the door.

Inside, the nurses are slowly packing things up. One starts to switch off the monitors while the other unhooks sensors from Sam’s chest. “...mighta been a brain thing,” one of them mutters. George clears his throat and they all look over.

“Get out,” he says, voice clipped and clear. The nurses look at each other, glancing over at the doctor. “I said get out,” George repeats. Still, no one moves. “Get out or the next time you see your families they’ll be in rooms like this one.”

“Yes sir, Mr. King, sir,” one of the nurses says. George spares her a glance. Someone knows how things work around here. She flicks off the last monitor and leaves the room, shrinking around George to leave. The rest of the nurses follow a moment later, and the doctor shuts the door behind him as he leaves George and Reynolds alone with what’s left of Sam.

George has seen many dead bodies in his time, but Sam doesn’t look like them. Sam looks so small, like a limp doll. He could be asleep. George crosses the empty room, shoes thudding against the tile. “Sam,” he says, “you forgot to wake me up.”

George comes to stand over Sam’s bed, and he bends over his dear Sam’s body. “Wake up love,” he breathes, running a hand down his rapidly cooling cheek. “We’ve got to go home.” Part of him hopes that this is all really a dream. That either he’ll wake up in a moment, or Sam will. That _this_ is one of those miracle endings in ‘based-on-a-true-story films.’

George’s other hand curls in the front of Sam’s hospital gown. “Sammy, wake up,” he pleads, even as everything in his head tells him that Sam’s not going to wake up. That Sam’s never going to wake up. “Come on, we’re going to go home, we’re going to get married.”

But no miracle occurs, no last-minute movie moment where Sam opens his eyes. George feels a cold hand grip his heart, his face contorting and he looks over to where Reynolds is standing in the doorway.

“He won’t wake up,” George says, voice deceptively light. Reynolds frowns, jaw clenched tightly. “James, come over here and help me wake him up.”

“Boss,” James says, and it’s all he needs to say. George drops his head into Sam’s cold chest. There’s no heartbeat beneath the cold flesh, there’s no life pulsing through Sam’s veins.

A sound - something almost inhuman - tears its way out of George’s throat. He muffles it in the fabric of Sam’s gown, the hand holding the dead man’s face turning into a fist and hitting the hospital bed next to the pillow.

George allows himself exactly sixty seconds before he pulls back, expression retrained into a relaxed, controlled neutrality. The ice in his heart is ablaze, flooding his veins until every inch of him is frozen. George looks down at Sam’s lifeless, empty face and presses one last gentle kiss to those frozen dead lips.

Then he stands, straightens his jacket, fixes his hair, and leaves that damned hospital room.

Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson are going to pay. If George had wanted them dead before, that was _nothing_ compared to what he wants now. George is going to destroy everything they love and make them watch. They’re going to be the last ones alive before George slowly tears them apart inch by bloody inch. They’re going to _beg_ him for death before this is all over.

And they’re going to know that it’s all their fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Veronica Sawyer Voice* Why is it whenever these boys fuck, someone dies?
> 
> In other news, I'm moving across state lines in a couple of weeks. I plan to have my backlog back up and as robust as usual but stay tuned. There might be a small break as I get adjusted to my new surroundings.
> 
> See you Friday!


	48. Thomas: The Master Of Denial Digs Himself An Even Bigger Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of going uptown start to rain down.

Thomas spends the hours long journey back to Manhattan listening to voicemails and trying to garner up the courage to tell Alexander that Laurens is dead. Each time he starts up a new one - _“Thomas, it’s James. Again. Call, please. I’ve got…”_ \- he promises himself he’ll let Alexander know when it’s done.

The voicemail ends, Thomas looks over to where Alexander is stewing, glaring out the window. He’s got one hand wrapped around Thomas’ free hand, but his eyes are glued to the countryside whizzing by the bus window. Thomas clicks the next voicemail and puts his phone up to his ear.

“ _Thomas, please, please call me. Laurens is dead and I need to know you’re alright._ ” Thomas lets out a low breath as James’ voice continues, audibly trying to restrain himself from panic. “ _No one knows what’s going on anymore, all bets are off and I don’t know where you are. Lafayette’s disappeared too now…_ ’

When Thomas reaches the end of his voicemail list, he goes through James’ texts again. He keeps glancing over at Alexander, but the words keep getting caught in his throat. _When he change buses,_ he promises. They change buses for the third time before Thomas decides that he’ll tell Alexander when they get on the subway.

An hour later, the subway doors close behind them, Thomas turns to Alexander, opens his mouth -

“So I’m thinking we go right to _The Frenchman_ ,” Alexander says. “Don’t worry about my apartment or your condo, just go right there as soon as possible.”

“Oh,” Thomas says, tripping over his own words. “Sure, that makes sense.” _John Laurens is dead_ , he adds in his head as Alexander turns away and goes to sit on an empty seat. Thomas is left standing in the car, one hand wrapped around a metal pole.

_I just need to do it,_ Thomas thinks. _Rip the band-aid off, as fast as possible. Just say it, John Laurens is dead._ Thomas looks down at Alexander. _Here we go. Say it. John Laurens is dead, John Laurens is dead, John Laurens is dead -_

The subway screams to a halt, and Alexander stands. “This is our stop,” he says, grabbing Thomas by the hand and pulling him off the car. The words are caught in Thomas’ throat as he stumbles behind Alexander, the shorter man moving with more speed than Thomas thought possible.

Alexander pulls Thomas up the station stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Thomas glances about, looking for hints of red as Alexander weaves through the crowd. He’s paranoid, searching for a hint of danger while Alexander just plows through the pedestrians and tourists in front of him.

Before Thomas knows it, they’re standing outside the darkened _Frenchman_. The pride flags at the top have been ripped from their stands, broken glass litters the sidewalk and there are bullet holes in the walls, door and shattered LED sign. Passersby give the building a wide berth and are walk quickly past.

“Holy shit,” Alexander breathes, taking in the carnage. His eyes are wide, scared, as if he’s suddenly fully understanding what Thomas had been trying to tell him back at the hotel. _This is war_. Thomas turns to drop the bomb, but Alexander is already tugging open the door.

As the door opens, Thomas can see inside where people are diving behind chairs and booths, ducking behind doorways and below the bar. It’s a flurry of movement for cover as Alexander slips inside the club.

“It’s just us!” Alexander calls, “Just us!” Thomas scoots inside just after him, the door shutting with a heavy _bang_. Faces slowly start to peek out of hiding places, faces with wide eyes and guns clutched in hand.

The only person that hadn’t moved from cover is still sitting at the bar, slowly turning around on their stool. Lafayette looks over at them, eyes bloodshot. A glass tumbles from their hand. “Alexander?”

Gasps echo through the room as Lafayette stands and stumbles their way over to where Alexander and Thomas are standing. “Yeah, it’s me,” Alexander says. “I’m alive and fine, _we’re_ alive…” he trails, looking over the room as more and more people emerge from their hiding spots. “Washington!”

“Alex,” Washington says from across the room, picking his way out from behind the dj booth. He opens his mouth to say something else but Lafayette reaches them first. They look down at Alexander for a moment, and Thomas thinks they’re going for a hug, but instead Lafayette winds up and swings.

The slap sends Alexander stumbling backwards, the sound echoing through the room. “Alexander Hamilton, where the _fuck_ have you been?” Lafayette says, voice slurred and smelling of drink. Alexander looks up at them, one hand holding his cheek. Thomas glances around, sees the anger settling on the faces of the other Sons members scattered throughout the room. The only one who doesn’t look angry is Washington.

“I… look, it wasn’t my fault,” Alexander says. Lafayette cocks an eyebrow.

“How is being gone _not your fault_.” His french accent is more pronounced, hindering his already slurred and staggered speech. Alexander takes a step forward, hands held out to the other man.

“I didn’t know anything, seriously. _This_ man - ” Alexander throws one hand back to point at Thomas - “didn’t tell me a goddamned thing! He told me you all knew where we were! If I had known what was happening, I would have come back so much faster.” He looks out over the slowly approaching angry crowd. “You have to believe me.”

Lafayette’s angry glare turns on Thomas, who shrinks against the door. Alexander grabs Laf by the arm. “How bad is it? Scratch that, we’ve got a plan, right? Where’s John?”

A hush sweeps through the club, angry mutterings gone quiet. Lafayette looks down at Alexander, their face gone blank. “You… you really do not know anything do you?” Lafayette asks. Alexander shakes his head, his eyes widening just slightly.

“What’s wrong Laf? Where’s John?!” He asks again, voice rising. Alexander’s eyes cast about the club again, searching. Thomas winces, waiting for it. “Lafayette, _where is John_?”

“John is dead,” Washington says from the back of the room. Lafayette’s shoulders droop and they take a step back towards the bar. Alexander grabs tighter to their arm, shaking his head.

“No, no, that’s not true, John’s not…” he trails as he sees the grim, empty look on Lafayette’s face. Alexander stops, eyes the size of planets as he searches Laf’s face. “How? How did it happen?”

“Charles Lee,” Knox says from the back left corner. “Betrayed us, shot Laurens and Nathan.”

Alexander’s eyes don’t leave Lafayette’s face, gripping harder to their arms. “How long?” He asks. “How long has John been…”

“Four days,” Washington answers. “The night after you disappeared.”

Alexander spins, looking Thomas dead in the eye. Thomas can see Alexander doing the math in his head, _knows_ Alexander remembers what they did the night Laurens died. “Did you know?” Alexander asks quietly. When Thomas doesn’t answer, Alexander repeats louder: “ _Did you fucking know?!”_

“Found out this morning,” Thomas mutters. “I was going to tell you…” He looks up at Alexander apologetically, but Alexander just shakes his head. He steps back slowly, backing away from Thomas, his face pale.

“Four days. _Four days,_ ” Alexander hisses. “My best friend was shot the night we - _Jesus fucking christ!_ ” His voice starts to rise. “John is dead because you didn’t tell me anything!”

“You don’t know that,” Thomas says, throat dry. “We might not have been able to stop it.”

Alexander’s face lights up in rage. “Fuck you!” He spits. “ _Fuck you, John is dead!_ ”

“Son,” Washington says, coming up behind Alexander and planting his hands on his shoulders gently. Alexander glares up at him.

“I’m not your son,” he snaps. Washington just frowns, a pained look on his face as he squeezes Alexander’s shoulders.

“Alexander, you need to calm down,” Washington says, firmly. Alexander looks as if he’s going to retaliate, spit something angry back but instead he just shrugs Washington’s hands off.

“Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down when John is dead, sir?” Alexander asks.

“It’s not just Laurens,” Tallmadge says, staring across the room at Thomas. “It’s Nathan Green, Adams, Montgomery…” he continues to list names, other men piping in during pauses. Alexander snaps his head around, eyes wide. Thomas slumps into the door, wincing every time he recognizes a name.

“So?” Tallmadge says, glancing between Thomas and Alexander. “What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

“I would like to know too,” comes a familiar voice from the back left corner of the club. There, standing in the doorway to the back exit, is James. His expression is very controlled, neutral everywhere except for the angry light in his eyes.

Thomas offers the best smile he can conjure up. The men in the club look between James and Thomas like they’re watching a car crash in slow motion. No one moves, no one speaks.

“Hey,” Thomas says.

“Hi,” is James’ short reply. Thomas swallows, looks around for help but no one but Alex looks even remotely sympathetic. Thomas’ forces his smile wider.

“So -”

“I’m waiting on that explanation,” James says, stepping farther into the club. A few of the Sons part to let him through, even as his steps are slow and measured. Thomas looks over at Alexander, who simply looks back.

“We, uh, we… panicked,” Thomas says, wincing. James’ face doesn’t change but his fists clench at his sides.

“Panicked?” James asks, deceptively light. Thomas nods.

“We knew King would come after us so we went off the grid,” Thomas explains. James hums.

“Well, it’s not like there were people here who could have _helped_ you,” he says. Thomas bites his lip. James is getting pretty close, and for a moment Thomas thinks about bolting, about throwing the door behind him open and taking his chances out on the street. But then James is on him, one hand around Thomas’ wrist like a vise. “But we shouldn’t talk about that here, should we?” James asks quietly.

Thomas shakes his head, and James smiles just ever so slightly. The already tight grip on Thomas’ wrist turns downright painful as James pulls him away from the door and across the club floor.

“Clark and I are going to have a _discussion_ ,” James announces, looking directly at Washington. Thomas looks over at Alexander pleadingly, and Alexander takes a step forward only to be held in place by Washington.

Every eye in the club is on Thomas, the gazes burn into his skin as James leads him to the back exit. He’s desperately trying to think of something to say as James hauls open the door, pulls Thomas to the car, opens the passenger side door and practically pushes Thomas inside. He waits until Thomas is situated with his seatbelt on before slamming the door shut.

Thomas hears the car doors lock. He watches James march around the car, manually unlock the driver’s side, take a deep breath and then get in the car. For a long second, they just sit there.

“I assume you’re going to kick my ass now?” Thomas asks. James just stares at the steering wheel in silence before turning the car on and pulling out of the back parking lot of The Frenchman.

“Where are we going?” Thomas asks. James glares out the front window.

“The precinct,” James responds, his voice clipped. “I want you to tell the story _once_ , in front of everybody, so we can just get this over with.” Thomas nods, leaning back against his seat. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yeah,” Thomas says. James takes a breath, knuckles white around the steering wheel. He glances over at Thomas, opens his mouth to say something, then pauses. He has to look back at the road, but when they hit a stoplight, he turns and looks at Thomas with narrowed eyes.

“Thomas,” James starts. “Tell me, I’m begging you, tell me that’s not a fucking _bite mark_ on your neck.”

Thomas’ hand flies to his neck, wincing as he remembers Alexander putting it there but a few hours ago. “What would you like it to be?” Thomas asks. James’ brow furrows, he goes to speak but someone behind them honking alerts him that the light’s changed.

“How the hell did you get a bite mark -” James cuts himself off, horror mixed with anger dawning on his face. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Thomas asks, hoping.

“You didn’t _sleep_ with him did you?!” James snaps. Thomas rubs the mark gently and looks out the window. The silence is all James needs. “Oh my god. Oh my _fucking_ god you did.”

“James -” Thomas goes to explain, goes to tell James how much he loves Alexander but James just shoots him a glare.

“No. There is _nothing_ you can say to make that okay,” James says.

“James I -”

“What in the _world_ were you thinking Thomas?! Sleeping with -”

“I’m in love with him!” Thomas admits, almost shouting over James. James stutters and falls silent; his jaw hung open. Then he shuts it, rubs the steering wheel and glues his eyes directly onto the road.

“You will not say another goddamned word until we’re in the station,” James says. Thomas swallows, then nods. The rest of the trip passes in silence, Thomas slouched against the window while James tries to breathe as deep as he can in the next seat.

James pulls into the precinct employee parking lot and gets out of the car. When James unlocks the car, Thomas follows, shoulders hunched. _Everything’s going to be alright_ , Thomas thinks, though it sounds more like Alexander in his head than his own internal voice.

James marches up to the door, pulls it open, and announces: “Guess who’s not dead?” He takes a few steps inside, Thomas hesitating just outside the door. James looks back at him. “Well, get in here!”

Thomas swallows, adjusts his collar to hide the mark as best he can, and steps inside the precinct. For a second, everything is dead silent. Wide, shocked and uncomprehending eyes bore into Thomas for a long heartbeat. Steuben drops his mug of coffee with a shattering sound.

Then all hell breaks loose.

It seems like everyone starts yelling at Thomas at once. He can't hear what anyone’s saying, all their voices meld together in a wall of angry, demanding voices. Sally turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Sybil stands from her chair so fast it tips over behind her and Louis slams a pile of papers into a desk.

Steuben are James are the only ones not speaking. James is just glaring lowly at Thomas as Thomas takes in the sight of frayed, stressed people reaching their snapping points. Thomas doesn't even really notice Steuben approaching until he suddenly Steuben’s in front of him and two large arms wrap themselves around Thomas.

“Oh thank god,” Steuben breathes, crushing Thomas in his embrace. Thomas freezes, not sure what he's supposed to do as Steuben just holds him close. For the first time it hits Thomas: these people thought he was _dead_.

Steuben pulls back, carefully plants his hands on Thomas’ shoulders and scans him up and down. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No, I'm fine,” Thomas says. Steuben squeezes his shoulders as he makes eye contact.

“Lafayette told us they hurt you,” he says. Thomas winces.

“Yeah, but I'm fine now,” Thomas insists, batting Steuben’s hands from his shoulder. Steuben looks vaguely hurt as Thomas takes a step back. Thomas wraps his arms around himself, one of his palms coming to rest over where Thomas knows the scarring crown to be.

The loud opening of a door pulls everyone’s attention to Sally as she comes marching back in, stormy anger across her face. “Alright,” she snarls, fists clenched be her sides. “Start talking Jefferson.”

Steuben stands aside so Thomas can look over the gathered agents, Revere and Sybil. He takes a deep breath, already resigned to tell the truth, and starts to speak.

“Five days ago -”

“Oh no,” Sally interrupts. “From the beginning.” She sits down on the edge of a table, glaring daggers at him. If looks could kill, Thomas would be dead five times over from the anger on everyone’s faces.

“The beginning?” Thomas asks, not quite sure.

“The first moment you started lying to us,” Sally clarifies. Louis nods in agreement. Thomas bites his lip.

“I guess that would be…” Thomas sighs. “That would be the kidnapping.”

Martha’s eyes go wide. “Fuck,” she mutters. “It’s true?” Thomas nods, and her face goes pale.

He starts to speak, starts to spill everything and Thomas feels dirty. This isn’t a cathartic telling of secrets, this isn’t like coming out, he feels nothing but ashamed. He can’t force himself to describe what happened in that warehouse, and thankfully no one presses for the moment.

“... so you can see why when I found out King had A - Hamilton I was scared,” Thomas says. “I panicked.”

“So you keep saying,” James says. Thomas winces but continues. He doesn’t even hesitate before he skips over kissing Alexander and anything regarding _them._ He can feel James’ eyes on him the entire time, and when Thomas ends his story without a mention of sleeping with Alexander, James narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything. He makes it sound like they hid in a hotel room for days on end before Alexander demanded they go back.

“So that’s it,” Thomas finishes. For a moment, there is silence, then:

“That’s it?” Sally asks. “ _That’s it?!_ ”

“Sally,” Louis starts, putting a hand on her shoulder, but she just shrugs it off.

“We thought you were dead. People _have_ died. Do you know what the current body count is?” She asks. “ _One hundred and sixty three_. And _rising_. In five days! _Five days_. It’s your fault and all you have to say is ‘that’s it?!’”

“Sally,” James says. “Let me take care of this.”

Sally’s eyes flash, but she just scowls. “Fine. I’ve got to go interview a nine-year-old kid who got caught in the gunfire.” She whirls, and walks out of the room. Martha shoots Thomas a look, then follows her out. Thomas watches them go, heart in his feet.

“Meeting room,” James grunts. Thomas blinks and looks over. “The meeting room.” James points at the room where Thomas had set up his ‘office’ with his map on the wall. “Go.”

Thomas nods, trying to keep his head up while he crosses the silent room. All eyes are on him, and they don’t leave until the door is shut firmly behind Thomas. He can hear James speak, the words muffled but he can recognize the calm, firm cadence of his voice. Thomas glances around the room.

Papers are scattered everywhere, reports Thomas doesn’t recognize. The map on the wall is out of place, and Thomas can see where someone had ripped it into strips then tried to tape it back together. _Sally trashed your map,_ Thomas remembers James texting him. _I think Martha’s trying to put it back up_.

Thomas feels along the edges carefully, running his fingertips across the pack of the push-pins. They haven’t been touched in days, there’s a thin layer of dust across the tops, but the arrangement is perfect. How long had Martha spent putting this up and like he would have?

The door clicks open behind him and Thomas turns to watch James enter. James silently shuts the door, takes a breath and turns around to face Thomas. His face is set in hard lines, his hands deceptively flat by his sides.

“Well, congratulations,” James says. “You have gone and managed to beyond fuck this up.”

“James -”

James holds up a hand to silence Thomas. “No, I don’t think you understand the ramifications of what you’ve done. You _left._ You chose to leave without giving us a heads up when you _knew_ King was going to be looking for revenge.”

“I made sure Alexander and I were safe.”

“Great! Wonderful! Did you spare a thought for any of us?” James snaps. “Did you care if any of us were safe?”

“Of course I did,” Thomas protests. “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

James takes a deep breath. “You let Hamilton _rip out a man’s eye and cut off his fingers_ and you didn’t think the consequences would be _that bad?_ ”

Thomas swallows. ‘When you put it like that…” he trails. James’ jaw works as he takes a few steps closer, the table between them.

“I just want to get this straight. You disregarded your duties as an Agent, your _oath,_ any sense of consideration for your co-workers, for innocents, for _me_ , so you could go fuck Alexander Hamilton in a hotel room. All you cared about was you, Hamilton, and whether or not you could get off?!”

“The sex wasn’t -” Thomas gestures wildly - “It wasn’t like, the only thing we did!”

“Oh, then, what else were you doing? Because unless you can say ‘following a lead’ or something, I don’t know how you can dig yourself out of this hole.”

“We… We, uh…” Thomas trails. “We went to a farm and… a fair…” he trails, watching James’ carefully constructed countenance start to break. “But!” He interjects. “None of that matters now!” James cocks an eyebrow, but Thomas keeps going. “I’m back now, and I can fix this, I swear. I can fix it, and everything’s going to be alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Everything’s going to be _alright_?” James repeats slowly. Thomas nods. James rubs the space just under his bottom lip with his thumb. “Please, Thomas, explain to me how everything’s going to be alright. Tell me how you can ‘fix this.’ Go on.”

Thomas pauses, glancing back at the map for a second. “Well, this started because of Seabury, right? If we find out where he’s getting medical help or -”

But James is already shaking his head. “Samuel Seabury is dead,” he says. Thomas’ heart skips a beat. “He died this morning of a brain hemorrhage. You _just_ missed him.”

Thomas’ mouth hangs open in silence for a moment, trying to reorganize this thoughts. He has to come up with a plan. He has to fix it. _Everything’s going to be alright -_

“I’m waiting for this magical plan of yours,” James says.

“How do you even know that?” Thomas asks, stalling for time.

“Tallmadge,” James explains. “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been the sole contact point in the Sons. Which, by the way, they’re fracturing since King is _killing_ them all. The situation is far from stable, Thomas. Nothing is secure, everything is falling apart, and it’s because _you_ felt like you couldn’t tell me the goddamned truth!” James finally shouts, hands coming down to hit the table and Thomas flinches.

“It’s okay James. Everything’s going to be -”

“How?! _How is it going to be alright?!_ ” James spits. “How is everything going to be alright while innocents are dying and I can’t get a hold of the situation and now I have to arrest my best friend. Tell me how everything is going to be _alright_?”

Thomas stops. “You have to what?” He asks, quietly. James lets out a shuddering breath, drops his head for a second. When he looks up, he’s far more composed.

“I have to arrest you,” he says simply. “Farnese gave me orders - if you showed up alive I was to place you into custody.”

Thomas shakes his head. “No, you can’t do that,” he says. “There’s nothing you can arrest me _for_ and I have to fix this anyway -”

James stands, his shoulders ramrod straight, and comes around the table. “I’m sorry Thomas, I don’t want to do this.”

“Then don’t!”

“Please,” James mutters, pulling a set of handcuffs out from his jacket. “Just give me your wrists and make this as easy as possible.”

Thomas pulls his hands close to his chest. “What the hell can even you arrest me for?”

James screws his eyes shut, and sighs. “Fine, if you’re going to be like this... “ he opens his eyes and levels Thomas with an empty gaze. “Thomas Jefferson, you are under arrest for murder, accessory to murder, obstruction of justice, evading arrest, and treason.”

“ _Treason?!_ ” Thomas shouts. James nods.

“You violated your oath as an Agent of the FBI. Farnese wants you for treason and who am I to question it?” James says, though he sounds tired. “The entire team is on thin ice because of you, so please, just empty your pockets on to the table.”

Thomas takes a slow step back, and James’ face falls further. “You can’t do this. You _won’t_ do this.”

“I really don’t want to have to pat you down,” James says. Thomas hesitates, searching James’ face desperately for any hint Thomas could talk his way out of this. James just stares back, a mix of determined and resigned. Slowly, Thomas reaches into his pockets and pulls out his phone, wallet and all the loose change and other items stuck down in there. He drops it all on the piles of paper on the table.

James doesn’t smile as he steps forward, hands out stretched with the handcuffs hanging from one hand. Thomas swallows. “Do you really have to put those on me?” Thomas asks, voice suddenly empty. James sighs, looking up at him.

“You’ve proven yourself a flight risk,” James explains. Thomas winces, and James’ hard expression breaks just the slightest bit. “Give me your right hand.”

Thomas complies, not looking at James as the cold metal sides around his wrist. It clicks into place and Thomas holds out his other hand, but James is gently turning him around to face the wall. James pulls his hand over to one of the filing cabinets and secures the other end of the handcuffs around one of the drawer handles. The cabinet is bolted to the floor and the drawer locked. Thomas couldn’t pull it free if he tried.

James clicks the other side of the handcuffs shut and pauses. He turns to look up at Thomas. “That’s the best I can do,” he says. “That, and get you a chair.”

“Thank you,” Thomas says. James nods, and looks down. He grabs one of the chairs from the table and slides it over to where Thomas can reach it. Silently, James walks over to the table and collects Thomas’ things from it.

Before he walks out the door, James turns around one last time. “Thomas I… I hope we’re still friends after this.”

Thomas blinks, shocked. “James, didn’t I tell you, everything’s going to be alright?” Thomas says. It’s all he can even think to say. James just looks at him sadly.

“I suppose I should say I hope I still want to be your friend after this.”

Thomas’ eyes widen as James yanks open the door and disappears back into the precinct. The moment the door is shut, Thomas is alone in near silence. He looks down at where his wrist is secured to the cabinet, and rattles the handcuffs gently. The metal rubs against his skin as it clinks against the cabinet.

Thomas sighs, not quite able to let his hand drop below his elbow, and looks around the room. He’s feet from anything but the cabinet and the chair, the window a fantasy’s length away. The only thing really in reach is his repaired map.

Thomas traces the lines of pins and lines with his eyes. It’s so stupid, looking at it now. A worthless waste of time, useless in the end, left to collect dust in this meeting room. Thomas frowns as he eyes the cluster of pins that denotes _The Frenchman_.

_What’s the point of this thing anyway?_ Thomas asks himself. _Why did I ever spend so much time making these damn things?_ Maybe he’s remembering wrong, but Thomas can’t quite recall a single time his maps had been actually useful to the team.

This one isn’t even complete. Thomas never got the chance to put up the strings. Not that there would have been much of a point. Thomas narrows his eyes, reaches up with his free hand and grabs the corner closest to him.

With a smooth motion, Thomas rips the paper from the wall, hearing the push pins pop out of the drywall and onto the floor. His breath catches as he willingly tears his hours of work down. It rips where it had been taped back together, tearing at seams repaired for him only for Thomas to tear it to pieces again.

When the first strip of paper comes free, Thomas crumbles it up in his hand and throws it to the floor. _Worthless,_ he thinks. _Useless._ He grabs for another section, another cascade of pins hits the floor. _Never should have existed_. His motions grow rougher, more desperate as he tears it to shreds.

Thomas pulls his precious map from the wall piece by piece, little whimpers building in his throat that turn to keening sounds that turn to sobs as Thomas struggles to reach the farthest bits. The upper corner on the other side of him stays tauntingly out of reach, held up on the wall by a few pins.

“Goddamnit,” Thomas breathes, feeling tears start to roll down his cheeks. “ _Goddamnit!_ ” The second time it’s a shout. The wrist in the cuffs strains against the metal as Thomas flails, trying to reach for the last piece.

Thomas collapses against the cabinet with a wail. He can’t even destroy properly. He can’t build, can’t sustain and can’t destroy so what’s the fucking point? Thomas slides down the cabinet, his handcuffed arm held up in the air as he hits the floor.

Thomas tucks his head into his knees, surrounded by the ruins of his beloved map. Scraps of paper and pins litter the floor beyond his feet.

Thomas doesn’t know how long he sits there before the door opens. “Thomas,” James calls, voice soft but gruff.

“What,” Thomas says without lifting his head. He hears James sigh, and then three sets of footsteps approach. He feels someone fiddle with the cuffs, then his arm is allowed to drop next to his body, the metal around his wrist still in place.

“Come on,” James says. “Give me your hands.” Thomas obeys, and soon his wrists are secured together in front of him. “Alright, you need to stand.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, lifts his head and sees that James is flanked by two muscular looking people that Thomas has never seen before in his life. James must see the confusion on his face because he says: “This is Agent Ponceau and Agent Walker, they’re your escort.”

“Escort to where? Rikers?” Thomas asks. James shakes his head.

“You’re going back to D.C. to await trial .”

Thomas’ eyes widen. “D.C.?” He repeats.

“Yeah, you’re going home Thomas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Jefferson's going home.
> 
> Story notes:
> 
> Before someone complains about how Thomas probably wouldn't get slapped with a treason charge, we'll talk about why that came down next chapter.
> 
> See you Friday


	49. Ladies And Gents, Thank You For Riding Air FBI, I Hope You Enjoyed Your Flight. Be Safe Out There, Watch For Dangerous Psychopaths That Want You Dead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, things aren't all that bad, I swear. Jane Jefferson is here, as well as Steuben's not boyfriends!

The ride to the airport is silent, Agent Pierre Etienne du Ponceau driving the standard black SUV while Agent Ben Walker rides in the backseat with Thomas. Walker is silent, sat a good few feet away from Thomas, but Thomas isn’t under any pretenses. Despite the friendly smile, Walker had read Thomas his Miranda Rights himself.

These men aren’t Thomas’ friends, they are his prison guards.

Thomas watches the city go by, eyes peeled for any hint of anyone he knows. He sits, slumped against the window, composing a letter to Alexander he’ll never get to send at this point. _I am never going to leave you_ \- Thomas’ own words to Alexander echo in his head - _Promise_.

_Everything’s going to be alright_ , Alexander says, and Thomas lets out a breath. Yeah, okay, everything’s going to be alright. It won’t be long before everyone realizes how stupid arresting Thomas is and let him come back.

_Everything’s going to be alright_ , Thomas repeats in his head as Walker and Ponceau walk him through a backdoor in JFK airport, surrounded by TSA officers and Air Marshals. He ends up pacing a small room deep in security, Walker and Ponceau standing at the door, while they wait for a flight.

_Everything’s going to be alright_ , Thomas thinks as he’s led down an empty boarding ramp. It’s just him and the six guys watching him. His wrists are starting to chafe in the handcuffs and he hopes that maybe they’ll let him relax during the flight.

When Thomas steps on the plane, he’s actually shocked to find that it’s an FBI plane, not a Department of Corrections transport plane. Walker glances at him and explains: “It’s what me and Pierre took up here, just easier that way.”

Thomas nods, staying silent as Walker ushers him into a seat and takes the one on the opposite side. Ponceau sticks his head up into the cabin, says a few hushed words, and then grabs a the seat beside Thomas. _Prison guards,_ Thomas reminds himself.

Walker waits until the door to the cabin is shut before he leans forward. Lowly, he says: “I just wanted to let you know, you don’t have to be worried about Pierre and I.” Thomas doesn’t respond, just looks over at Walker with a disbelieving look. Walker sighs.

“I mean it Thomas,” Walker says. “I mean, yeah, you probably shouldn’t say anything until you get a lawyer, but Steuben asked us to take care of you.” To Thomas’ questioning expression, Walker explains: “When he realized you were gonna get arrested, he texted us and asked us to volunteer to be your escort.”

Thomas glances between the two men, sees the friendly smiles on both their faces. If Steuben asked these two in particular, they won’t treat him roughly. It also means they won’t be lax around him, but he doesn’t have to worry about any lack of care. _Prison guards_ , _not friends_.

Walker nods to himself, glances over at Ponceau, and mutters: “Good talk.” The two Agents settle into their seats as Thomas leans against the window. They don’t take off the cuffs nor does Thomas speak the entire hour and a half flight to DC.

When the plane lands, Walker turns on his phone and almost instantly receives a call. He shares a knowing, exasperated look with Ponceau and stands, walking to the other side of the plane before picking it up. Thomas doesn’t need to listen in to know it’s likely Farnese on the other side.

A moment later, Walker returns. “Alright, we’re clear to go,” he says. Thomas sighs, even as he stands and waits for Ponceau to move. The brunette leads the trio - Walker behind Thomas - to the door and starts down the stairs. Thomas takes a steadying breath and follows.

Thomas blinks in the evening light, the sun starting to ride low in the sky. It’s still bright out, sure, but the shadows of the transport vans on the tarmac are long.

And there, standing at the bottom of the stairs, grinning like the cheshire cat, is Charles Farnese himself. He’s flanked by imposing agents in suits, some Thomas recognizes from his home office, and he’s dressed to the nines. Farnese waits until Thomas is almost to the ground when he starts to speak.

“Well well well, the _great_ Thomas Jefferson returns home at last!” Farnese exclaims. Thomas just glares at him, and then affixes his gaze to the ground. “Oh, don’t have any big words for me now? Where’s all your bravado gone?”

Still Thomas doesn’t respond. He knows anything he’ll say will just get turned around on him later. Farnese just smirks. “Alright boys, to -”

“Charles Farnese you will step away from my client this instant!” Cries a voice from behind the mass of agents. Farnese’s smirk turns into a scowl for just a moment, before he manages to fix his best bureaucracy smile across his face. He turns, the crowd of Agents parting for him.

“Miss Jefferson,” Farnese says. Thomas picks up his eyes to find his eldest sister, Jane, marching across the tarmac. She’s dressed in her best court attire, storming over in stiletto heels.

“Did you and I not just attend the same court hearing?” She asks, shouting to be heard as she approached. “No, tell me that you were _not_ the same Charles Farnese I just argued against in the DoJ.”

Jane’s heels click on the hard ground as she puts herself between Thomas and Farnese, arms folded across her chest. Farnese grits his jaw. “I was just welcoming dear Thomas home.”

Jane’s eyes narrow. “Well, _you_ shouldn’t be within speaking distance of him when I’m not here. Neither should any of your agents.”

“We had to send him a protection detail, Miss. Jefferson,” Farnese says, words like oil. “You agreed to a small entourage.”

“A small entourage is not -” Jane quickly counts the amount of Agents flanking Farnese - “nine men and the director himself. What did you say to my client before I was present.”

“Just hello,” Farnese says. “You can ask him yourself.”

Jane pauses, glaring holes into Farnese before turning around and walking up close to Thomas. Gently, she puts a hand on his arm and speaks low enough that Farnese can’t hear. “Have you said anything?” She asks.

“Not since I got my Miranda,” Thomas mutters back. Jane searches his face for a moment, the famous Jefferson woman gaze boring into him, then turns back around.

“Anything he said before having his rights read is inadmissible,” she says. Farnese nods.

“I’m aware,” says the director of the FBI. Jane shoots him a wry smile.  
“Just reminding you,” she says, then turns back to Thomas. “Alright, we’re going to go home and you and I are going to have a nice, _long_ talk.”

“Home?” Thomas asks, and Jane nods. Farnese clears his throat.

“You will be taking Walker and Ponceau with you, of course,” he says. Jane’s lip quirks downward.

“Of course, as per the conditions of our deal,” she says tersely. “I intend on upholding my end, Farnese.”

“Wonderful, Miss. Jefferson.” Farnese motions to one of his agents. “You’ll also be needing this,” he says. One of the Agents steps forward, holding what looks like a small dog collar with an old flip-phone attached. In his other hand is a small box, and Thomas stifles a groan. It’s a ankle bracelet monitor and the little home base it uses to track the wearer’s location.

“We’ll just fit that and you can be on your way!” Farnese says, grin stretched across his face. Thomas glances at Jane, who just sighs.

“They wouldn’t agree to house arrest without it,” Jane says. Thomas purses his lips, steps forward to meet the Agent. The hulking man kneels down, and Thomas keeps his gaze locked in front of him. Thomas can look out over the man’s hunched form and get a complete and total view of the multiple transport cars waiting for him. They’re likely using a caravan just to help rub this whole thing in his face.

Thomas gets a complete view of each of the black SUVs going up in flames.

To be fair, he only gets a glimpse of the fireballs before the shockwave hits him like a three-ton truck and he’s knocked backwards. Thank god the staircase to the plane had been retracted, otherwise Thomas - as well as Walker, Ponceau and Jane - would have gone right into the hard metal.

The sound of four simultaneous explosions is deafening, Thomas’ ears already ringing even as he hits the concrete. Searing heat rolls over his body as he scrapes along the tarmac, feeling the harsh ground tear into his clothes and skin.

“Fuck!” Someone shouts, just audible behind the ringing. Thomas rolls over onto his side, almost completely vulnerable with his hands shackled in front of him. A second later, there’s a body on his and he recognizes Walker, the Agent keeping him pressed into the ground.

“Thomas, are you alright?” Walker asks. The man’s body helps to shield the rolling heat slightly. _Walker has to be boiling in his suit,_ is the completely inconsequential thought running through Thomas’ shocked mind.

“Yeah, I guess,” Thomas says, even as he can feel himself start to bleed through his clothes. Walker’s got a gash across his face, blood running down his cheek.

The sounds around him are starting to return, Thomas can hear people shouting. Jane is screaming at someone to let her up from the ground.

“What the hell was that?!” Farnese yells. Thomas looks over, the man is being helped up off the ground by a couple of agents.

“Keep your head down sir,” one of them barks, eyes scanning the immediate area. There’s a few people on the ground, unmoving. One man has what looks like a large piece of windshield buried in his stomach.

“We need to get everyone inside,” Walker shouts at the other agents, and gets returning nods. Three of the standing agents start to rush Farnese towards a hangar while one comes over to where Walker and Thomas are still on the ground.

Together, both agents haul Thomas to his feet, and they settle into the best jog they can manage - Thomas is limping, the unknown agent holds one arm against his stomach tightly. Thomas glances back, Jane and Ponceau are behind them. Jane’s careful ponytail is fucked, her jacket and blouse torn open, and there’s a splatter of blood running down her arm.

“Jane!” Thomas calls back, even as Walker and the other agent pulls him along.

“I’m fine Thomas! It’s just a bit of blood,” Jane shouts back, doing her best to keep up with Ponceau with one heel cracked off.

Thomas lets his gaze drift over to the still-burning cars. The scent of burnt gasoline, plastic and blood fills the air. The flames lick high into the sky, bright orange as TSA and airport security rush out onto the scene. Thomas can already hear the faint sounds of sirens, but all of that goes quiet as Thomas is shoved inside the hangar.

“...I want to know what the _fuck_ just happened and I want to know twenty minutes ago!” Farnese is screaming, even as the most put together agent pushes past Thomas and his escort. “I almost just died!”

“Yes, sir, we’re trying,” says an Agent, already on her phone. “We have to get you medical attention first.” Jane and Ponceau slide into the hangar, and the door shuts behind them. Jane offers Thomas a smile, then reaches down to slide off her heels.

“Fuck medical attention,” Farnese spits, “why did four cars just go up in flames?!”

“King,” Thomas says, bringing every eye in the room on him. The gathered agents fall silent as Thomas takes a breath. “King did this.’

“And what makes you so sure?” Farnese spits. “What the hell do you know, you idiotic, half-baked excuse of an ex-agent?”

Thomas looks Farnese in the eyes, doesn’t shrink away from the burning anger and fear in those eyes. “Because King wants to kill me,” he says. Farnese’ gaze hardens even further, but Thomas’ heart is pounding in his ears. “That’s the reason I ran, that’s the reason I’m here right now, George King wants to kill me.”

“Thomas, you need to shut up right now,” Jane says, stumbling over to him, barefoot. Thomas looked over at her, his _sister,_ who almost just _died_. Thomas shakes his head, everything that just happened just starting to hit him like a wave.

“Jane, you need to listen to me,” he says. “You need to drop me as a client, okay? Drop me and get the family into witness protection. Mom and all our siblings, and all their kids.”

“What? No -”

“Jane!” Thomas snaps. He’d reach out and grab her if he could. Instead he just stands there, flanked by his guards, eyes wide. “I’m being hunted by a psychopath. King just did that -” Thomas motions in the direction of the explosion with his cuffed hands - “and he won’t stop until I’m dead. You’re in danger just by being my sister -”

“What are we, chopped liver?” Farnese broke in. “No one’s in danger.” Thomas looked over at him, breathing hard. Thomas’ lip quirked upwards, he let out a little chuckle.

“You don’t know,” Thomas breathes. “You don’t know what King is like.” Thomas looks down at his hand, the one without fingernails. There’s dirt covering his hand, but he just stares at his ruined fingertips. “You can’t possibly know,” he whispers.

A hand comes down on his upper arm, making Thomas jump. “Thomas,” Jane says. “You need to calm down and shut up.” Thomas looks up at his sister, sees the hard determination in her eyes as she speaks. “You’ll be protected, okay? And we’ll figure this out.”

Thomas wants to protest. He glances back down at his hand, his skin tingles where he knows the brand to be on his chest, but he just looks back up at Jane. _Everything’s going to be alright,_ Thomas repeats in his head. So, with a nod, Thomas tries to breath deep and quell the doom rising in his head. Jane squeezes his arm and turns back to Farnese.

“I do believe Thomas’ safety concerns must be readdressed,” she says. “For one, I no longer feel comfortable sticking a tracking device on his ankle.”

\--------------

In the end it’s decided that Thomas will be given a twenty-person security detail and he’s to be moved out of D.C. for protection purposes. They end up making the three-hour trip from D.C. to Richmond in non-descript, seemingly average cars. Walker and Ponceau don’t leave Thomas’ side, even as they’re crammed into Jane’s tiny car with a third agent.

“I could drive,” Jane grumbles as she slides into the passenger seat. The third agent simply shoots her a look and grabs the keys from her hand. Jane turns around as the car gets moving, striking out into D.C. traffic and heading for the interstate.

“We’re taking you to Monticello,” Jane announces. Thomas blinks, looking up at her in shock. She puts a hand up to stop him from talking. “I know, I know, but it’s hidden and convenient and off the records. If anyone manages to find you, it’s because someone in your protection detail sold you out.”

“That’s comforting,” Thomas grumbles, thinking of Farnese. Jane sighs, and turns back around in her chair. She feeds the agent the first set of directions as Thomas settles into her faux leather seats. His shoulders are starting to burn from having them out in front of him this entire time. The rubbing of bandages on fresh wounds doesn’t help either.

The explosion had managed to scrape up Thomas’ side, opposite the brand. The EMT hadn’t asked about the existing scarring, and Jane hadn’t seen it thankfully. Walker sported a bandage on his face, Ponceau’s suit jacket was in tatters, and Jane had sustained a little injury, but all in all they had made it out okay. They had been the farthest away after all, and it was a miracle none of the shrapnel had made its way to them.

“Could you…?” Thomas asks, raising his cuffed hands in Walker’s direction. Walker frowns, thinking.

“Not until we’re inside your home,” he says, and Thomas sighs.

The ride to Monticello is silent besides idle chatter between the three agents. Jane speaks only to give directions. She’s glued to her phone, probably already trying to work on Thomas’ case. Thomas himself is silent. The less he says the better - he’s already said some pretty incriminating things back at the hangar.

When they pull up to Monticello three hours later, Thomas is made to wait in the car with Walker and Ponceau as the other eighteen agents do a sweep of the house and grounds. When Thomas is finally let out of the car, his legs are cramping - especially the one that had been hurt the most in the explosion.

Flanked on either side by Walker and Ponceau, Thomas is led inside before Walker finally unlocks the handcuffs. Thomas gently rubs his sore skin, wondering if it’ll bruise, as he looks around the entryway to his childhood home.

Nothing’s changed, but everything has.

“You’re allowed to move wherever you’d like inside the house,” Walker is saying. “You can’t step outside without clearance from us, but other than that, you’re free.”

“Wow, wonderful,” Thomas mutters. The house might be large, but the layout is still imprinted into his memory from years of living in it.

“Alright, alright,” Jane is saying. “Thomas and I need to talk.” Walker and Ponceau share a glance as Jane glares at them. “Alone. Attorney-client privilege? Shoo!” Jane makes a little shooing motion with her hands, and when they don’t move she sighs, grabs Thomas by the arm gently and leads him into the kitchen.

They aren’t followed, and none of the other agents are in sight. Jane still takes the time to check the doors and windows for eavesdroppers before planting herself at the dusty counter. “Well, at least you’ll have time to clean this place up,” she mutters, scratching at her nose. She looks up at Thomas and motions to the barstool on the other side of the island from her. “Sit. This is going to be a _long_ conversation.”

Thomas settles into his seat and Jane puts her phone onto the counter. From a pocket, she pulls out a small notebook and pen. “Alright. Why have they slapped you with murder and treason charges?” She asks, all business.

Thomas hesitates. Jane is still his sister. Jane cocks an eyebrow, and when Thomas still doesn’t speak, she sighs. “Thomas, lets get going. Time’s a wasting.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Thomas says. Jane rolls her eyes.

“Is this the whole ‘you’ll be in danger’ thing again?” She asks. “Thomas, look, you’re my brother and I’m a damn good lawyer and you’ll need both a damn good lawyer and family to get through this.”

Thomas shakes his head. “There are two outcomes to this: I die or everything will be alright.”

Jane blinks. “Those are two extremes of the scale,” she says, almost laughing in disbelief. Thomas shrugs.

“It’s one or the other and whether or not you get involved won’t change that,” Thomas says. “And I believe that everything is going to be alright.”

“That’s not what you were saying a few hours ago.”

“I panicked in the hangar and forgot is all,” Thomas says. Jane puts the pen down on the table and looks at Thomas with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“You honestly think ‘everything will be alright?’” She asks. Thomas nods. She pauses, brow furrowed in shock and confusion. “Thomas, they have you under a _treason_ charge. Do you understand what that means? Treason, Thomas, treason! Once you’ve got a treason charge slapped on you, all that ‘due process’ stuff that’s so great goes right out the goddamned window. I’m honestly surprised they didn’t double down and call you a terrorist too!”

Thomas shrugs. “It’s fine -”

“It’s not fine!” Jane snaps. “Do you know how _lucky_ you are that James called me, that I managed to snag the _one_ judge in D.C. that both owes me a favor and hates Farnese, that I managed to even _get_ to you before you got carted off to some prison and never seen again.”

“James called you?” Thomas asks.

“Well, yeah, of course. He’s still your friend, even if you’ve managed to go and fuck your entire life up,” Jane shoots back. “He called me and told me you got your stupid ass arrested for _treason_ and I better get myself down to the courthouse and stop Farnese from basically setting up a courtroom execution.” She shakes her head and leans back on her stool. “So you better start talking so I can try and keep you from getting shot up with poison by the government. Treason can carry the death penalty, in case you’ve forgotten, and Farnese wants to make an example of you.”

Thomas grits his jaw, and looks down at the counter. “Jane, I swear to you, everything’s going to be alright.”

Jane lets out a noise of exasperation, grabs her things from the counter and stands. “Thomas Jefferson, dear brother, things will only be alright if you _talk to me_.” Jane pauses for just a moment before letting out a hum. “I’m going to call Momma. She wants to see you, since you’re not dead like they told us.”

With that Jane whirls and walks away, still barefoot against the old kitchen tile. Thomas is left alone in his childhood kitchen desperately repeating the mantra to himself: _Everything’s going to be alright_.

Thomas sleeps alone that night for the first time in almost a week. He snags what he thinks to be almost three hours between nightmares and the phantom sounds of drum beating. Each time he wakes up, Thomas wonders where Alexander is before he remembers.

The drums echo in his skull loud enough to make his head ache. They pound against him in his sleep. He doesn’t remember any dreams except for that damned beating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, no shit's bad. Sorry, I lied. But if you honestly believed me, have you really been paying attention?
> 
> Welcome to Monticello
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Pierre Etienne du Ponceau and Benjamin Walker were the male lovers of Baron Von Steuben. Steuben met Ponceau during his stay in France after he left the Prussian Army, and Ponceau came with Steuben to America for the Revolution. Walker was one of Steuben's translators (since Steuben refused to learn English) and he (as well as another man named William North) was welcomed into the Steuben/Ponceau relationship. After the war, the four settled down in a house gifted to Steuben by Congress for his service in the war. The house became a haven for gay couples, at one point housing both Charles Adams (John Adam's son who didn't become president) and John Mulligan (Hercules Mulligan's son), who were likely involved with each other. Walker died in 1818, and Ponceau in 1844. Ponceau outlived Steuben by 50 years (he was 30 years younger than the man), while Walker only made it 28 years and was only 23 years younger than Steuben. Because I suppose those seven years really don't matter when you're 47 and picking up 17 year old French boys. Godfuckingdamn it Steuben. I love you but god damn it.
> 
> See you Friday.
> 
> (Now I want a Who Lives Who Dies Who Tells Your Story with Ponceau, Walker and Steuben. "I live another fifty years," yeah well Eliza you ain't the only one.)


	50. Killing People From The Safety Of Virginia Isn't As Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Momma Jefferson shows in the final chapter before the storm begins.

Thomas wanders the halls of Monticello alone, catching glimpses of the agents at each entryway, each large window, as well as the car hidden halfway down the winding driveway. From where it’s parked behind some bushes, Thomas can see it plain as day from a front window, but you couldn’t see it from the road. Beyond all that is the forest surrounding the estate.

“You might want to stay away from windows,” Walker suggests, sitting on the grand family room couch, feet propped up on an ottoman, eating a granola bar. “Be kind of a shame to see you get taken out by a sniper in the trees.”

“Isn’t it your job to check for snipers in the trees?” Thomas asks, turning to him. Walker’s eyebrows shoot up.

“He speaks!” Walker says. “Pierre, get in here, the prodigal agent speaks!”

Thomas rolls his eyes and throws himself on the loveseat next to Walker’s couch. “I’m not supposed to talk to you. I know how this works.” A moment of silence passes, Thomas just staring at the old, stucco ceiling.

Walker glances over at him and pulls out his phone. “Wanna watch the Giants game? We don’t have cable out here, but service is pretty good.”

“I just said I’m not supposed to talk.”

“What’s a little sports talk?” Walker asks. “Pierre’s not interested and everyone else is outside.”

Thomas picks his head up to look over at Walker, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You know I have the same exact training you do, right?”

“That’s the reason we’re here, isn’t it? Come on.” Walker smiles at him. Thomas pauses, considering. The ‘I’m your friend’ interrogation technique can’t work if Thomas knows it too, right?

Thomas sighs.  _ It’s something to do,  _ he thinks, and crosses the room to sit by Walker. “I’m more of a baseball guy,” Thomas warns. Walker shrugs and holds his phone out so Thomas can watch the tiny screen. It’s mindless, but Thomas finds his thoughts drifting. Relaxing isn’t exactly the easiest to do given Thomas’ current situation.

Thomas takes a breath.  _ Everything’s going to be alright _ .

The live game stutters a bit into the third quarter when Walker receives a text. Walker jumps, instantly pulling his phone away from Thomas’ view. Thomas leans back on the couch as he waits for Walker to finish whatever he’s doing so they can go back to the game.

“So, uh, Pierre wants me to give you a heads up,” Walker says, looking up at Thomas. Thomas cocks an eyebrow and Walker fidgets. “Apparently your mother -”

“ _ Thomas Jefferson! _ ” comes a familiar voice from somewhere in the house.

“-Is here,” Walker finishes, sighing. Thomas is already up and off the couch however, heading in the direction of his mother’s voice. He bursts into the kitchen, and there she is.

“Momma,” Thomas breathes. Momma Jefferson, his  _ mother _ , beams at him from across the kitchen, arms held out, purse on her shoulder. Metal bracelets on her wrists jangle as she motions for Thomas to come closer.

“Tommy, come here,” she says, drawing him into a hug. Her manicured nails play against his back without digging in and Thomas smiles.

“How have you been ma?” He asks.

“Oh, good, just wonderful,” she says before pulling back and looking him in the eye. “That is until I got a call from little Jemmy Madison trying to tell me you had gone and died on me.”

“Sorry ma’am,” Thomas says. Momma Jefferson squeezes his arms.

“You better be young man. I knew you were fine, but everyone threw up this huge hullabaloo about it.” She pats his arm, and then drops her hold. She moves across the kitchen to the empty spot where the fridge should be is, walking with that same powerful elegance she’s always had.

“We gotta get this place furnished if you’re going to be living here a while,” she says. Thomas frowns and looks at the floor.

“You look good ma’am,” Thomas says. He means it, she still doesn’t have a single strand of silver hair on her head. She almost doesn’t look like she could be his mom, more like an elder sister.

“Why thank you Thomas, but flattery won’t get you anywhere now,” she says, tallying everything the kitchen needs. “Now, Janey says we can’t talk about what happened up north in case I get asked to testify, but are you alright Thomas?”

Thomas swallows. ‘I’m just fine, ma’am.” Momma Jefferson’s head snaps to him faster than he can blink, eyes narrowed.

“Thomas Luke Jefferson you cannot lie to me,” she says, her tone all the warning Thomas needs. He fidgets in place, hands clasped obediently behind his back.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he says. His mother’s eyes glitter.

“But are you alright now?” She asks. Slowly, Thomas shakes his head and she lets out a breath.

“Oh, Tommy,” she says, coming back across the kitchen. “What did they do to you up there?”

“You say that like I haven’t done anything either,” Thomas says. Momma Jefferson frowns, and Thomas’ heart breaks at the sight.

“Did they hurt you? Have you gotten to see a doctor?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and then amends “kind of. They had a doctor look at me after what happened at the airport but…” Thomas looks down at his destroyed hand, and his mom’s gaze follows. She gasps, grabbing for it and holding his fingers close to her face.

“What happened?”

Thomas looks away. “We can’t talk about what happened up north yet,” he says. Momma Jefferson looks at him, her intelligent eyes scanning his face like Jane had done yesterday at the airport, only she was the master of the look. Thomas waits for her to press, waits for her to say ‘screw the law’ and ask, but instead she just sighs.

“I made you food, figured you don’t have anything up here,” she says, digging into her purse. She pulls out tupperware containers, the simple sight of which make Thomas’ mouth water. “This should be enough until I can get you some actual groceries.”

“Thank you ma’am,” Thomas says as she puts the containers on the counter. When she looks up, she pauses for just a moment.

“I always knew you weren’t cut out for it,” she says. Thomas blinks, looking up at her in shock. “I’m sorry Tommy, but you’re not made to be in the FBI. But you were so insistent and I thought that since James went with you, you’d be alright.” Momma Jefferson shakes her head. “You were always too romantic at heart.”

“Romantic?” Thomas asks, the word caught in his throat. Momma Jefferson offers him a sympathetic smile.

“You’re too… sensitive dear. There’s nothing wrong with that - your father be damned - but you can’t be that way if you want to be a Federal Agent. It’s why I wasn’t worried about little Jemmy.”

_ You idiotic, half-baked excuse for an ex-agent,  _ Farnese’s words echo in Thomas’ head. Thomas winces, looking down. “Everything’s going to be alright,” he repeats. Momma Jefferson gives him a look, a slight frown on her face.

“What would you like from the store?” She asks, finally stepping back. “Jane says you’re going to be cooped up here and I don’t want my baby boy eating garbage.”

\--------------

As much as Thomas would like her too, Momma Jefferson can’t stay forever and she eventually leaves after dropping off bags of groceries and a stack of family photo albums. “Just so you have something to do for now,” she’d said.

Which is how Thomas ends up, alone in his childhood bedroom, flicking through old pictures. He’d started from the beginning - well,  _ technically  _ he’d skipped all his parent’s wedding photos, he still didn’t like looking at pictures of his father - with baby pictures of Jane, then his older sister Mary.

Thomas smiled as he began to join the collection of pictures, a small, scrawny child with wild hair tottling after his sisters. Him and his mom, him and a very young James.

Then came the next children, the swath of kids the Jeffersons adopted. Lizzie, five years old in the first family photo she appears in. Thomas had been seven when Lizzie took her first steps inside Monticello. Martha, also five appears two years later.

Then Peter, precious little Peter with his lighter brown skin and chocolate eyes. Thomas’ heart clenches when he looks down at that face. He’d been four when he joined them, nine when he disappeared.  _ I’m sorry Peter,  _ Thomas thinks, and then shakes his head.  _ No, everything’s going to be alright. You didn’t let them down _ .

Speaking of them; Thomas turns a few more pages and there’s little Sam. He too had been four years old when Momma had decided to take in the son of her neighbors recently dead in a car accident. Pale skin and floppy blond hair, a childish little grin that Thomas still remembered.

He turns the page, looking down at the ever-growing Jefferson family. Thomas, now ten with close-shaved hair and his first football jersey. God, he’d hated that thing. Little Lucy adopted with the intention of being the last one. The twins, Anna and Rudy, God’s little surprises as Mom called them.

Thomas and his father at one of Thomas’ games, his father beaming over Thomas’ shoulder as Thomas looked uncomfortable. Another family photo, the only complete one with the infant twins.

Sam on his seventh birthday, just a month or two before he vanished. The candles on the birthday cake light his face from the bottom, casting his face into odd shadows that almost remind him of…

Thomas frowns. Well, that’s a ridiculous thought, isn’t it? He turns the page, hesitates, then goes back. His mind starts counting the years without prompting and yeah, Sam would be about nineteen or twenty if he was still alive. A twenty-year old man with that floppy blond hair -

Thomas’ eyes widen, his breath catches in his throat. That’s  _ impossible,  _ isn’t it? He looks down at that photo with the odd lighting, and then flips back a page to look at Sam with actual decent lighting. He tries to picture that boy as an adult wearing a gaudy red jacket.

When the face in Thomas’ head looks far too like that face that tore off his fingernails, Thomas shuts the photo album and shoves the lot under his bed.

_ No,  _ he tells himself.  _ The odds are astronomical _ .  _ Sam Jefferson, my brother, died a long time ago.. _

_ Well, Sam  _ Jefferson  _ did,  _ his mind supplies,  _ Sam  _ Seabury  _ died this morning. And you killed him _ .

_ Shut up, everything’s going to be alright,  _ Thomas tells himself.  _ I didn’t kill my brother, everything’s going to be alright. _

“Thomas?”

Thomas jumps at the sound of Jane’s voice coming through his bedroom door. He clears his throat. “You’re good,” he calls back and Jane opens the door. She takes one look at him - unshowered and sulking in his room - and sighs. She carefully shuts the door behind her, and crosses to sit on the end of his bed.

“Thomas, it’s been a whole day,” she says. “Are you ready to tell me what happened up in New York?”

“Surely you’ve gotten the FBI preliminary report and the accusation?” Thomas asks. Jane presses her lips together.

“I’d like to hear your side of the story,” she says. “What made you run upstate away from the job with a gangster?”

Thomas pauses, looking down at his comforter.  _ What would she say,  _ he thinks,  _ what would anyone say if I told them I fell in love?  _ He glances up, ready to confess -

Jane’s phone rings, a chirping ringtone playing from inside her suit jacket. She frowns, pulls it out and checks the id. “Sorry, office, gotta take it,” she explains before poking the screen and putting the phone up to her ear. “Jane Jefferson, I’m with a client right now -”

She pauses, blinking. “No, sorry, I can’t talk, I’m in a  _ meeting _ , tell him to call back later… what? No, I don’t have a client by that name.” She rolls her eyes at Thomas. “Yes, I’m absolutely sure I don’t have a William Clark.”

Thomas stiffens, jolting upright. Jane shoots him a look as he grabs the arm holding the phone. “Hold on,” she says to the phone, and then turns to Thomas. “What?”

“Who is that?” He asks.

“My secretary, she says some guy is calling about a client I don’t have.” Jane goes to lean back into the phone and Thomas squeezes her arm.

“Ask her what the man sounds like. Does he have a British accent?” Thomas asks, worry starting to build in his gut. Jane gives him a look, but repeats the question, and a moment later she says:

“Yeah, actually.”

Thomas’ heart stops. “Tell your secretary to put him through and then give the phone to me.”

“What -”

“Just do it Jane. Please,” Thomas begs. “I’ll tell you anything you want if you let me talk to him.”

Jane hesitates, turning that infamous Jefferson Women look on him, before speaking into her phone. “Yeah, put him through I guess. I’ll talk to him.” A moment later, she slides her phone from her ear and hands it to Thomas.

Thomas grabs it and presses it against his head. A long heartbeat passes, before there’s a light  _ click _ and then: “Miss. Jefferson?”

Thomas winces at the familiar British voice. He takes a breath, turns away from Jane and says lowly: “Don’t you fucking dare touch my family.”

There’s a quiet moment from the other side of the line, Thomas must have caught King at least slightly off guard. “Well, hello Thomas,” King says. “I didn’t expect you on the other side of this line. Or alive for that matter.”

“What do you want with my sister?” Thomas hisses.

“Thomas, who is it?” Jane asks, but Thomas shuts her out. King hums.

“Well, if I’m perfectly honest I just wanted confirmation of your fiery, painful death, but I see I have confirmation of the opposite. How did you like your gift, by the way? Getting all those car bombs set up on such short notice was quite a hassle.”

“Fuck off,” Thomas says. “You almost hurt Jane.”

“Collateral damage,” King says dismissively. “It would have been your fault.”

“Don’t you think I don’t know that?” Thomas snaps. “Look, I get you want me dead but my family has nothing to do with this.”

King sighs. “Do you honestly think me a moral enough man to leave your family out of it? You killed Sam.” A chill runs down Thomas’ spine at the words. “You and I both know that every single person bearing the surname  _ Jefferson  _ could be dead in three days if I wanted it done.”

“I said leave them alone,” Thomas says. King chuckles.

“Or you’ll do what?” he asks. “Not much you can do under watch is there? And with what you’ve already done, there’s nothing you can do to me that could possibly be worse.” King pauses, and Thomas can almost hear the gears turning in his head. “Besides, what’s losing your family compared to losing your precious Alexander?”

Thomas’ heart stops. “What?”

“Thomas, give me that phone,” Jane demands, scooting closer. Thomas shoos her away.

“What do you mean by that?” Thomas demands. “If you so much as touch one hair on his head -”

“Whoops, too laaateee,” King sings. When he speaks again, it’s muffled like his head is turned. “James! Is he still conscious?” There’s a pause, and then King returns to clarity. “You see Thomas, a good portion of the Sons were decidedly unhappy with what you and Alexander did, running off like that. Henry Knox himself dropped him off in my hands.”

Thomas’ heart is pounding in his ears. He wants to reach through the phone and throttle King. “You’re fucking lying.”

“The plan was for your sister to come over the phone and I’d put it on speaker so dear Alex could hear you were dead from another source,” King says, as if Thomas hadn’t spoken. “Well, the  _ original  _ plan was to get images of your burned, destroyed body and just show him those but my man panicked when the explosives went off and ran. Why don’t we just flip the plan around, hmm? How does that sound?”

“Thomas, hang up the phone now,” Jane says, grabbing onto his arm. “Hang up the phone and tell me what’s going on.” Thomas shakes his head.

“You’re on speaker dear,” King says, voice now a slight distance away. There’s a moment of silence.

“Alex?” Thomas ventures, hoping. There’s another pause, and then King tutts.

“Oh Alexander dear, I  _ know  _ you don’t have a tongue but your vocal chords still work.”

Thomas’ eyes widen. “You -”

As if reading his mind, King cut in with “Yep! Couldn’t take his yapping. He still makes all these wonderful noises though. James?”

There’s a pause, Thomas clutching his phone like a lifeline as he waits, hoping. Then, the most bloodcurdling scream sounds, distant from the phone but still clear. Thomas’ entire body goes cold as he listens to Alexander scream, wet and agonizing.

“See?” King says, just audible over the tail end of the noise. Thomas takes a shuddering breath as Jane pulls on his arm.

“Thomas,” she says, pleading.

“You bastard,” Thomas mutters. “Alex, baby, I’m sorry,” he says a bit louder, hoping Alexander can hear him. “Everything’s going to be alright.” He winces as another scream sounds.

“Thomas, put it down,” Jane says, trying to tug the phone away from him. Thomas is far stronger though. “You don’t need to listen to whatever’s going on.”

Thomas screws his eyes shut. “Jane, get out of here,” he says, shrugging her off and standing from his bed. He walks over to lean against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool drywall. “Alex, it’ll be over soon, everything’s going to be alright.”

“Well, you’re right on one of those counts,” King says lightly. “Now that I have you to play with, I don’t need to keep little Alex around.”

Thomas gasps as a gunshot sounds, the sounds of Alexander’s pained cries falling instantly silent. He can feel his body shaking, the echo of the gun echoing in his ears.

“Well, didn’t mean to shoot him in the head,” King muses after a moment. “I was aiming for his neck. I wanted to let you hear him bleed out. Guess I’m as worse shot than I thought.”

“You fucking monster,” Thomas says, even as his throat threatens to close up on him. His eyes burn with tears.

“Oh, I’m the monster?” King asks. “I mean, I suppose, but if I’m a monster that makes you one too.”

“I didn’t mean for Sam to die,” Thomas says. King pauses.

“So you intended to let him live, half blind and mutilated?” King asks. “At least I had the mercy to end Alexander’s life. I wonder which of us is worse.”

“You left me alive,” Thomas counters. King lets out a noise of exasperation.

“I took your nails and left you a couple of scars. You’re fine,” he scoffs. “You cut off his fingers and carved out his eye.” Thomas doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead he responds:

“Fine, sure. Do whatever you want to me -”

“I intend to.”

“- But no one else needs to get hurt,” Thomas finishes.

“Thomas, how many times do I have to tell you, you’re safe!” Jane protests. “As your lawyer, I demand you hang up!”

“Oh, but I love when you get all worked up about the people you love,” King says. “You’re so vulnerable, so easy to push around. I thought federal agents were supposed to be tougher than this. Well, I mean Madison and the rest of them have been, even that old fart in the bathrobe put up a bigger fight than you have. You, however…” King trails. “You can sure take pain yourself, but the moment I  _ look  _ at someone you care about you cave like a cheap coal mine on fire.”

“I’m the only one you want,” Thomas protests. Jane huffs behind him.

“Thomas, I swear -”

Thomas whirls, looking Jane in the eyes. “Jane! I know you’re trying to help me, but just be quiet, okay? I know what I’m doing. I know how this ends.”

“Do you, Thomas?” King asks, his voice like silk. “Because I know I don’t have to touch you to hurt you the worst I could ever hurt you.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, and turns away from his stunned sister. “You can do whatever you want to me, just -”

“Oh I know I can,” King interrupts. “But I just had a better idea. You’re stuck at home under charge of treason, are you not? Last I checked, treason gets you right on death row. I could just push a few things around and you’ll be facing an executioner before you know it.”

Thomas scoffs. “You’d never just let it go -”

“But in the meantime, while you go through your precious judicial system and rot in a cell, I’ll be out here, picking people off one at a time. I’d start with your last remaining brother - Randy, is it? Go for the youngest first. Then maybe Mr. Capet, I know you don’t like him much, but start off slow.”

“I -”

“Then Anna, then Martha Skelton, then your  _ sister  _ Martha, and on and on. I’d let you see, of course, each of their bodies. Let you see what I did to them before they died. I’m sure I’ll start getting really creative.”

“Don’t -”

“All the while, you’ll just be wasting away on death row, not knowing when the next one will come, hoping that your date with death will come before I’m done but you’ll know I would never let that happen. So I’ll just make my way through every single person you  _ ever _ cared about until you’re strapped down on that table and shot full of drugs alone.”

“Just -”

“Well, not alone. I’ll be there,” King says. “I’ll be watching through that glass, waiting to see you take your last breath.”

“Don’t you hurt anyone else,” Thomas pleads, feeling the tears roll down his face. “Just me.”

“I’ll see you on execution day,” King taunts, and the line goes dead. Thomas stands there for a moment, frozen. His fingers are curled out it, gripping so tightly they ache.

“Thomas,” Jane asks quietly. “Who was that?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Thomas asks, his voice shaking. Jane slowly comes up behind him, wrapping her own slender fingers around the phone and lowering it along with Thomas’ hand.

“Tell me what he said,” Jane says, “and we’ll tell the FBI and they’ll trace the call. We’ll protect you.”

Thomas lets out a raspy laugh, tears still cascading down his face. “You won’t be able to,” he says.

“What, trace it?”

“Either. Trace it or protect me,” Thomas says. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. You need to collect everyone and get into witness protection.” Thomas grabs onto Jane’s arm. “You need to run.”

“I have faith,” Jane says. “Everything’s going to be alright, you said it yourself.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Jane, please. Get the whole family and go.” He looks down at Jane pleadingly, trying to recreate everything in one look so he doesn’t have to tell her.

“I’ll bring it up to mom,” Jane finally says. Thomas nods.

“Please, you have to convince her. If mom agrees, everyone else will too,” he says. Jane purses her lips.

“You need to tell me everything,” she says. “From the beginning, and everything that just happened.”

Thomas hesitates, thinking. Jane looks up at him, determination in her eyes. Thomas weighs his options. He’d love to believe that witness protection could stop King, but deep in his soul he knows it’ll just slow him down.

Alexander’s screams echo in Thomas’ head and his heart twists. There’s an immeasurable sorrow inside him, his heart is screaming but it feels muted; it’s like Thomas’ brain is trying to shut it out so it doesn’t hurt so bad.

Thomas looks at Jane, thinks about Alexander and the hell that will rain down on his family and realizes he’s got nothing left. Especially not if he stays here. He can’t just stay here and let everyone around him pay.

“Do you remember that time I was in college,” Thomas starts, “when you came up to surprise me with a visit so you got James to let you into our dorm and you walked in on me blowing a guy?”

Jane’s brow creases. “Yeah, you tried to play it off like you were buying drugs but the guy was confused and called you babe.”

Thomas nods. “And then you burst out laughing because I was so mortified, but I was also terrified because I hadn’t come out to anyone in our family?”

“Yeah, of course, what’s this got to do with anything?” Jane asks.

“And I begged you not to tell mom or dad or anyone else and you said you’d keep any secret for me because you were my older sister and we gotta ride or die together and you told me you were aro-ace?”

“Thomas I have attorney-client privilege right now, whatever secret you’ve got I am legally bound to keep,” Jane says, foot tapping against the ground. “Please, just tell me.”

“I need you to do something very important for me,” Thomas says slowly. “If you get it done, I will tell you everything.”

“Thomas, tell me  _ now _ ,” Jane insists. “The sooner you talk to me the sooner I can help you.”

Thomas shakes his head. “What I need you to do colors  _ everything _ ,” he lies. He just needs to get Jane out of here, out of this house and away from him for the time being. “The outcome of it changes the entire thing, and it’s better if you don’t know how in case I’m wrong.”

Jane hesitates, her eyes scanning Thomas’ face. “If I do this,” she says, “you  _ swear  _ you’ll talk to me after?”

“Yes,” Thomas promises, knowing he’ll never get the chance to. Jane takes a breath, and steps back.

“Alright, what is it?”

Thomas lets out his own sigh of relief, committing to his lie. “I need you to do as much research and investigation as you can into one Samuel Seabury.”

“The guy you allegedly killed?” Jane asks, confusion on her face. Thomas nods.

“I need to know anything you can get on his past. Where he came from, his family, everything,” Thomas says. “And whatever you find, you can’t tell anyone besides me. Ride or die, remember?”

“What am I looking for?” Jane asks.

Thomas pauses. “You’ll know it if you find it,” he says. Jane’s brow furrows.

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” she protests. Thomas sighs, and grabs onto her arms.

“Just, do this for me, alright?” Thomas asks. “You either won’t find anything or…” Thomas trails, thinking, “you’ll find something.”

“Those are usually the two options yes,” Jane drawls. Thomas frowns.

“I mean - God, just go,” Thomas says, turning her around and pushing her towards her bedroom door. “Find everything you can and get back to me.”

“Alright alright!” Jane says, stumbling away from him. “And when I get back with this information, you’ll actually talk. For real this time.”

“Yes, now go.” Thomas watches her pause, eye him for a moment longer then walk out of his room. Thomas lets out a pent up breath. He’s hoping Jane won’t find anything. That either he’s wrong or that it’s been too long and there’s no way to trace anything back to his family. But if she does… well at least someone knows.

Thomas walks over to his bedroom door, flicks the lock, and goes back to his childhood bed. He has to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends it is I, but not really, because lovely wonderful Karli (@kookookarli) has agreed to upload this chapter for me while my internet access is down. Everyone say thank you Karli. Or maybe not. She unintentionally brought Alex’s death so……
> 
> (But if you haven't checked out Karli’s work (especially our collab work The Murder Monologues) I highly recommend you do!!! Karli’s an excellent writer and an even better person so go show her some love)
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Thomas Jefferson didn't have a middle name, so I just gave him the name “Luke.” I think Karli actually suggested it. Thanks love.
> 
> Momma Jefferson actually died when Thomas was young, and everything she is here is a complete fabrication. I still love her though.
> 
> See you Friday!


	51. Thomas Just Won't Learn His Lesson About Head Wounds, Will He? Those Kill Thomas, Kill Or Concuss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd say this is Mistake Number One on Thomas' part but we all know that's a lie.

_Alexander sits on the edge of the hotel bed, hair pulled back in his usual ponytail, staring out the window. Thomas stands there for a moment in disbelief, tracing the way the morning sun traces Alexander’s features. And then Alexander turns to face him, a gentle smile on his face._

_“Hey,” he says. “How’ve you been?”_

_Thomas’ throat is tight, he has no words and Alexander’s smile turns a bit sad. “I suppose that's fair. It's not every day I die.”_

_Thomas’ breath catches. “So, you know then?” He manages to ask. Alexander nods._

_“Yeah, kinda hard not to,” he replies, a slight chuckle in his voice. “Hasn't been long, but it's not bad on this side of things,” he says, answering Thomas’ question before he has a chance to ask._

_“So, who was right, me or you?” Thomas asks, the tranquility of the hotel room putting him at ease. Alexander rolls his eyes._

_“Wouldn't you like to know?” Alexander asks. Thomas just nods as he crosses to sit in the edge of the other bed, facing Alexander._

_“Yeah, I would.”_

_Alexander sighs. “Would tell you if I could. I'm not quite ‘on the other side,’ despite being technically on the other side. Haven't moved on, if you wanna call it that.”_

_“Why not?” Thomas asks. Alexander looks at him with longing in his eyes._

_“Couldn't leave you behind, not yet at least,” Alexander says. “Sorry.”_

_“No!” Thomas interjects. “No, don't be sorry.” He instinctively starts to reach for him, and then hesitates. Alexander sees it, and shrugs._

_“I dunno, try it?” Alexander says. Thomas swallows, and slowly reaches out for Alexander. His hand slides into the space beside Alexander’s cheek, and then in a leap of faith goes to cradle his face._

_Alexander is cold, clammy like a corpse would be, but he leans into the contact and the conflicting signals makes Thomas’ heart twist._

_“I miss you,” Thomas says. Alexander smiles bitterly._

_“It's only been a few hours,” he says. “But yeah.”_

_Thomas feels his breathing start to pick up, start to hitch and catch in his chest and Alexander’s smile falls. He gently grabs Thomas’ hand and crosses the gap between the beds to hold Thomas._

_“It's alright,” Alexander says, and Thomas shakes his head._

_“It's not,” is Thomas’ reply as the first tears start to fall. Alexander shifts so Thomas’ face ends up buried in his chest, their arms wrapped around each other as Thomas cries._

_“Shhh,” Alexander croons, “I've got you.”_

_“You're dead,” Thomas says, voice thick. Alexander just sighs._

_“Yeah, yeah I am. But I'm here for now, until you wake up. We've got this time now, and whenever you're asleep,” Alexander says, slowly starting to rock back and forth._

_“I p-promised you I'd go with you anywhere,” Thomas sniffles. “You've gone somewhere I can't follow, I'm so sorry,”_

_Alexander rests his head atop Thomas’. “I'll always be there with you, okay? And we’ll always have our week away in this room.” Alexander squeezes Thomas harder. “You and me, forever. I love you.”_

_Thomas gasps. He cries even harder into Alexander’s chest as the man whispers condolences. “I love you, it's okay.”_

_“I left,” Thomas sobs._

_“And I forgive you for it,” Alexander responds. “I forgive you and I love you so so much.”_

_There’s no heartbeat in Alexander’s chest, no steady rhythm. Thomas longs to hear even the faintest of beatings, but there’s nothing._

\--------------

Thomas wakes crying. He stares up at the ceiling and feels the tears running down his cheeks. He tries to breathe, to staunch the flow but it takes him a long moment to do so. When he glances over at his clock, it’s before he set his alarm, so he just lies in his misery until the beeping starts.

He spends the majority of the day wallowing in bed, running over his plan in his head over and over again. When Thomas finally emerges from his bedroom, it’s close to dinner time. Walker, leaning up against the wall by his door, looks him up and down. “You okay man?” he asks. Thomas shrugs. He knows he looks like shit. His face hurts from crying and Alexander’s screams echo in his head.

“It’s whatever,” Thomas mumbles, shuffling down into the kitchen. Walker follows, a respectful but concerned distance behind. When Thomas makes it down there, he can see Ponceau and some agent talking through the glass door to the spice gardens. Both of them glance over, but then go back to their conversation.

Thomas digs into the pantry where he stuck his mother’s food, grabbing one of the metal plates she’d given him - “metal’s easy to take care of until we get you a dishwasher,” she’d said. Walker watches silently as Thomas loads up his plate, grabs a set of silverware and trudges back to his room.

This time, instead of letting Thomas have his privacy, Walker comes into his bedroom with him. “I’m supposed to watch you if you’ve got something that you might use to harm yourself,” Walker explains, motioning to the steak knife in Thomas ‘ hand.

Thomas nods. “I know, I am - _was_ an agent too.”

Walker gives him a look like _fair enough,_ and settles against the dresser. Walker sticks his hands in his pockets and just watches Thomas eat.

“So,” Walker starts, “not to freak you out or anything, but Steuben called down. According to him, things are getting a little wild up there - well, more than they were - and so they’re probably not going to be back for a while. Farnese wants to wait to start bringing you to court until everything’s cleared up.”

“So you’re saying I’m just gonna be here for a while,” Thomas says. Walker nods.

“Looks like it.” Walker glances around the room. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be stuck here with you. Apparently neither I or Pierre scored any points by agreeing to watch you for Friedrich.”

“Sorry,” Thomas mutters around a carrot. He quickly makes his way through a plateful of veggies, bread and jerky as Walker talks.

“It’s no big deal,” Walker says. “I was looking for a way to get out of the office for a bit anyway. It’s stuffy behind those cubicles. Was always jealous of you and anyone else that got to jet set around.”

“Not that great,” Thomas responds. Walker snorts.

“Yeah, well it didn’t work out so great for you, obviously.”

Thomas just ignores the comment and finishes his food, stuffing the last bit of jerky in his mouth. He takes a breath, climbs off the bed and starts to make his way over to the door. “Could you…” Thomas trails, motioning to the door, hands full. Walker stands from the dresser, crosses in front of Thomas to open the door and Thomas takes his opening.

Before Walker’s hand can even close around the doorknob, Thomas brings his plate down onto Walker’s head. With a heavy _thud,_ the metal collides with the back of Walker’s head and he goes down like a sack of bricks.

_Idiot,_ Thomas thinks. _Turning your back on me, rookie mistake_. There’s a dent in the metal now, but Thomas winds up and hits Walker’s unconscious body a second time, just to make sure. Then, carefully, Thomas turns him over and he really is out, if the slack look on his face is anything to go by.

He’s still breathing though, and there’s no blood, so Thomas is fairly confident in thinking the man will be okay. Thomas kneels down, opens the man’s suit jacket and starts to dig around in his pockets.

“Sorry man,” Thomas mutters, “You’re a good guy. Hope the headache isn’t too bad.” Thomas feels around, taking Walker’s phone out. He holds it in his hand for a moment before deciding it’s riskier than what it’s worth and drops it. He does take the forty bucks in Walker’s wallet though, and then slides his hands around until he finds the pistol tucked into the holster at Walker’s waist.

Thomas pulls it out, it’s the standard FBI issue, no silencer. Thomas fires it and he’ll alert every other agent to what he’s doing instantly. He still tucks it into his pants, choosing not to try and wrestle the holster from Walker’s body. He checks the man’s other pockets, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, then a set of sunglasses he puts back.

Thomas makes short work of dragging Walker’s limp form into the bathroom adjoining Thomas’ room, and then handcuffs Walker to the pipe underneath the sink. He tries to make sure Walker looks at least _somewhat_ comfortable before leaving the bathroom and pushing the dresser in front of the door.

Thomas stands in his bedroom alone, and takes a moment to marvel at the fact that stage one of his hardly-designed plan actually worked. He snatches his knife from the floor and holds it carefully against his arm as he pokes his head out into the hallway.

The hallway is empty, devoid of worried agents who heard any commotion. Thomas nods to himself. The only other agent likely in the house itself is Ponceau, but he’s still got eighteen other men surrounding it he’s gotta deal with.

_Well, technically,_ Thomas thinks, _I really only have to worry about enough to clear a path to the woods._ Once he’s in the treeline, Thomas figures a childhood of exploring the woods will give him at least a slight advantage. Add on any head start he might get, and Thomas actually gives himself a decent chance of making it.

This is his home after all. Thomas knows this place like the back of his hand.

Thomas grabs his plate and makes his way back down to the kitchen. Ponceau is still perched on a stool there, but the agent he was talking to now has his back to the house. Thomas can feel Ponceau’s eyes on him as he walks through the kitchen, hoping the other agent doesn’t notice the gun now tucked under his shirt.

“Where’s Ben?” Ponceau asks, and Thomas blinks. He doesn’t actually remember the man speaking before.

“Bathroom,” Thomas says. “Upstairs.” Ponceau nods, and watches Thomas as he drops his plate and fork into the sink.

“Where’s your knife?” Ponceau asks. Thomas starts, feeling the kitchen blade press into his upper arm.

“What?”

“You took a knife upstairs, where is it?” Ponceau asks again, voice hard. Thomas shakes his head.

“I didn’t,” he says. Ponceau’s eyes narrow. Thomas shrugs. “Search me or my room, I didn’t take one,” he lies.

Ponceau eyes him for a moment, then slips off the stool. He approaches Thomas slowly, eyes scanning Thomas’ body. “Okay, arms out then. Hands on the counter.”

Thomas complies, feeling the knife under his shirt sleeve shift and threaten to fall out. He swallows as Ponceau approaches, the way he’s bent over slightly threatens to expose the hilt of Walker’s gun.

_Fuck,_ Thomas thinks. He’d been hoping to get Ponceau at least out of the kitchen, perhaps into a hallway before making his move. He glances over at the agent just outside the glass door, he’s not looking but a lot of noise will certainly attract his attention.

Ponceau steps behind Thomas, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Thomas’ chest to start the pat-down, but then freezes. His hip is digging into the spot Thomas knows the gun is an Ponceau slides his hands down and towards it.

_Well,_ Thomas thinks, _now or never_. He uses Ponceau’s confused distraction for the moment to whirl and slam his thigh into Ponceau’s groin. The other man doubles over with a silent rush of air and Thomas quickly pulls his knife out. Thomas slams the butt of the knife into Ponceau’s temple and the other man goes slack.

Thomas drops his knife in his rush to catch Ponceau before he hits the floor. With 5’10 of unconscious FBI agent in his arms, Thomas glances over to the door. The other agent doesn’t even look disturbed, let alone close to turning around.

Quickly, Thomas drags Ponceau out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. Thomas throws open the little door under the stairs and pulls Ponceau inside. Just as he struggles to shut the door Ponceau groans, opening his eyes.

“Fuck,” Thomas whispers as Ponceau regains his bearings. The man blinks confusedly up at Thomas, then opens his mouth to call out. Thomas throws his hand over Ponceau’s mouth, struggling to maintain a hold of the man.

Ponceau lashes out with his foot, going for Thomas’ knee but his aim slightly off and movements still sluggish. Thomas pins the man to the floor, slamming his head into it hard enough to make the man’s eyes go hazy.

Before Ponceau can recover, Thomas digs the man’s handcuffs out and secures him so Ponceau is hugging the hot water heater. Thomas tears the man’s tie off to use it as a makeshift gag, and uses an extension cord to tie his ankles together.

By the time he’s done, Ponceau is glaring up at him, jaw working against the gag. Thomas sighs, still crouched over him. “Sorry, but I gotta,” he whispers. Ponceau narrows his eyes as Thomas also steals his money - sixty bucks - and grabs his gun, only to pop out the ammo clip and drop the empty gun onto the floor.

“Do me a favor and just relax,” Thomas says, “That’s an old heater and my mother will be pissed if you damage it.” Ponceau responds by swinging his elbow into the old thing, leaving a small dent and making a quiet noise. Thomas purses his lips. “Okay, that’s fair. Tell Walker I said I’m sorry.”

With that, Thomas leaves Ponceau in the small room, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t bother locking it, that was just cruel at this point.

Standing in his now-empty house, Thomas mentally maps out his house. The back-right patio is probably Thomas’ best shot. It’s a secluded exit, fairly close to the tree line -

“Pierre?” Comes a voice from the kitchen. Thomas stifles a groan. The agent from just outside the kitchen door must have turned around looking for Ponceau. He can hear the footsteps coming closer to the hallway Thomas is in. Thomas presses himself against the wall, and when the agent turns the corner Thomas is waiting for him, gun in hand.

Since the technique hasn’t failed him before, Thomas goes for the head, swinging the gun like a club. The dark-skinned agent gets one wide-eyed look of shock before Thomas’ strike lands and he drops. Standing over the agent’s limp form, Thomas eyes the now open kitchen door. His mental map of his home and his training tells Thomas that there’s at _least_ one other person who can see that door.

He looks down. The man on the floor drools slightly, chest rising and falling. His hair, pulled back into a ponytail has come loose and now frames his unconscious face in waves. It takes Thomas a second, but he recognizes the agent from passing him in the hallway at the office.

Thomas gasps, an idea forming in his head. Quickly, he grabs the unconscious agent by the arms and drags him into the hallway, out of sight of the door. Thomas hauls the man up, but frowns when he sees the man is at least a good head shorter than him. He lets the man crumple back onto the floor, thinks about checking Pierre, but instead runs back up the stairs.

Walker is still out when Thomas manages to get back inside the bathroom and strips the man of his suit jacket. In the mirror, Thomas takes the time to try and pat down his hair into something not quite his usual style. The cumulative damage done to it over the past few weeks has left it unwilling to answer to him, but he manages to wrestle it into a ponytail.

Thomas snatches the sunglasses from Walker’s body and when he slides them on, Thomas figures it to be good enough. He doesn’t have to be completely unrecognizable, just strange enough so as not to be immediately recognized from a distance. He doesn’t have anything but the same pair of dark jeans he’s been wearing for three days, but they’ll have to do.

Thomas makes it back down the stairs to find the last agent still slumped against the wall. He walks past him and out the glass door. He slides it shut behind him, using the turn to surreptitiously scan the surrounding area. He was right, there’s another agent looking at him a small distance to the right.

“Did you find him?” The agent calls. Thomas nods towards her, glances behind himself, and then walks towards her.

“Had to go check on Walker,” Thomas mutters, forcing his voice gravelly like he has to cough. The female agent’s brow furrows slightly.

“You okay?” She asks. Thomas nods, turning into his elbow to fake a cough, obscuring his face long enough to get within striking distance of her. Her eyes widen as she takes in Thomas’ hulking height, the one major difference between him and the agent knocked out in his hallway. “Wait -”

Thomas goes for it, using the elbow he’s ‘coughing’ into to hit her in the head. She jerks back at the last second so Thomas hits her in the cheek rather than the temple. She stumbles backwards, scrambling for her radio and but Thomas is faster, ripping the earpiece away from her and pulling out the cord from the pack.

The agent takes the opening to drive her knee into Thomas’ stomach, and air rushes out of Thomas’ body. He grunts, but manages to grab onto her leg and send her crashing to the ground.

The agent gasps for air, sucking in a breath, but Thomas in on her before she can call out. With one hand on her mouth, Thomas pulls the gun from his waistband and pistol-whips in her in the head. She goes limp, light dying from her eyes. Thomas takes a second to make sure she’s still breathing before looking up.

Despite the struggle, it doesn’t seem they garnered any attention.

Thomas smiles to himself. He quickly pulls her against the side of the house - her post had been the parlor window - and leaves her there. He turns around, the low sun casting shadows from the trees towards him.

He starts off across the patch of grass towards the woods. If he can just get in the treeline, Thomas will be in the clear. He’s got one hundred dollars, one set of clothes and a gun to his name, but all that matters is getting back to New York.

He keeps his eyes on a sweep, looking side-to-side for someone to come, running and shouting, towards him. But no such person comes, and when he reaches the forest line, Thomas turns around one last time.

Except for the agent slumped against the window, Monticello looks perfectly peaceful. With a sense of finality rarely allowed to men, Thomas has a sinking sense that he won’t ever be back to his childhood home. At least, not for a very long time.

He spots an agent coming around the parlor outcropping, and Thomas sinks into the trees.

\--------------

It costs Thomas forty bucks and seven hours of his time to ride a bus from town back up to Manhattan. Seven hours spent curled in on himself, trying not to flinch each time he spots a police car from the bus window, praying the radio he can faintly hear from the driver’s seat won’t out him somehow.

Seven hours spent flipping between thoughts of Alexander and thoughts of James and his family. He faintly wonders how long it takes anyone at Monticello to realize he’s gone, to find the slumped, unconscious agents he left behind. He wonders specifically how long it takes for anyone to find poor Pierre.

In the forefront of his thoughts is Alexander. His Alexander, betrayed and now gone. The screams and gunshots echo in his head, keeping any hint of sleep from him. Whenever he closes his eyes, his mind decides to torture him with fantastical images of what King must have done to Alexander. Tongue ripped out, blood dripping from his lips, skin flayed to pieces -

The pounding of distant drums keeps Thomas awake anyway. Someone on this damned bus must be playing music somewhere. Never mind all of Thomas’ travelling compatriots are asleep, one of them must be producing the sound.

The bus pulls into New York at four in the morning. Thomas stumbles out first, before the other bleary-eyed people even manage to stand. He doesn’t need any of them looking at their phones and calling him out.

Standing in a broken-down bus station on Staten Island, Thomas realizes for the first time how truly on his own he is. Lights buzz above him, and Thomas has nothing. He can’t go to James or his old team, and if the Sons really did betray Alexander, they're just as dangerous.

There’s a decrepit map on the wall and Thomas busies himself looking at it, trying to figure out his next move. He can’t do anything until he knows exactly what happened after he left - who decided to hand Alexander over to King, for example. His eyes scan Manhattan, gaze lighting on Harlem. Thomas’ gaze locks on where he thinks he remembers Washington’s condo being.

_Washington_. Why would _he_ have given the go ahead to sentence Alexander to death? Had he just gotten that desperate? Thomas frowns. _That’s_ where he goes. Washington will tell him what happened.

And if he won’t, Thomas will make him.

He turns, ready to go find a way to call a cab, just in time to watch a familiar figure walk through the station door. The man looks up, shoving his keys into his pocket, and almost instantly his eyes light on Thomas.

“Well, that answers that,” Juan Manuel says, pulling his keys back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back!! The move went great and now school's started up so I'm getting in the swing of that. But my backlog's longer than it has been in a very long time.
> 
> Anyway, we're starting the home stretch. That's not to say God Save is ending soon, I still don't know how many chapters this is going to end up being, but I think we're solidly in act 3.
> 
> (Also, LittleIsland, if you're still reading, fuck you (jk love you) for calling that Thomas goes rouge back in chapter fucking 20. I lost my shit back then because Ben just died and there you were, calling something literally months away.)
> 
> See you Friday!


	52. Happy One Year Anniversary To This Fic, Have Some Angst Fresh From The Oven To Celebrate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a special One Year Anniversary upload, Thomas comes face-to-face with the consequences of a gang war.

“Come, then,” Manuel says, motioning for Thomas to follow him out of the station. Thomas hesitates, but then he glances back at the milling group of travelers and willingly crosses the station.

“What are you doing here?” Thomas asks as Manuel turns to lead him of the door.

“I’m here to pick you up,” Juan says. Standing, he’s shorter than Thomas, about average height and almost completely nondescript.

“But why?” Thomas asks.

“I’m supposed to,” Manuel responds. “They sent me.”

“The Orishas?” Thomas asks. Manuel looks back at him, a slight look of surprise on his face.

“So, Alexander gave you a crash course in Santeria then?” Manuel asks. Thomas nods, drawing his arms into his body. “Then yes, they did.”

Manuel leads Thomas to a beat down green car that has rust eating at the edges of the body. He unlocks the doors and gets into the driver's seat. Thomas has to practically fall into the passenger's seat the car is so low to the ground.

“So, where’s Alex?” Manuel asks. Thomas leans into the cheap seating, looking down at the floor of the car. Juan sighs. “You two didn’t listen to me.”

“I was _forced_ to leave him,” Thomas protests.

“And what did you learn?”

“I shouldn’t have,” Thomas mutters. “I really shouldn’t have.”

Manuel nods, starting to drive out into the early morning street. “I only hope it’s not too late to return to him,” Manuel says. Thomas glances up at him, stomach sinking. Manuel’s eyes are locked on the road, face completely innocent.

 _He must not know,_ Thomas thinks. He opens his mouth to tell him, but he can’t force the words out. “Me too,” is all Thomas manages to get out.

“Where to?” Manuel asks. Thomas looks out over the road.

“The Washington’s,” Thomas says. “I have to talk to him.”

“Not Alexander’s?” Manuel asks and Thomas winces.

“He should be there,” Thomas lies. Manuel hums, and glances over at him.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“Last night, barely.”

“Not on the bus?”

“No,” Thomas sighs, leaning into the car door.

“You can take a nap, we’ve got a bit of a drive,” Manuel says. Thomas hums, watching the street lights pass. “Can you not sleep?”

“No,” Thomas repeats. Manuel stays silent for a moment, and Thomas looks over at him. “I… nevermind. It’s weird.”

Manuel cocks an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s simply weird to a Christian man. It might be normal to me.”

Buildings fly past the window. “I… I can’t sleep because of these drums.”

“Drums?”

Thomas nods. “I mean, there’s some other things too, but whenever it’s quiet or I try to sleep, there are just these… _war drums_ in my head. Nothing I do stifles them. They just won’t stop _pounding_.”

Manuel hums, though the sound is without a hint of confusion. “I understand,” he says, then goes silent. Thomas looks over at him, still hunched against the door.

“Do you have an explanation?” Thomas asks. Manuel shrugs.

“Yes, but you are not one to believe any explanation I have for anything.”

Thomas pauses. “Hit me with it anyway.”

“Elegguá is trying to speak to you,” Manuel says. Thomas feels like he should sigh or roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks back out the window.

“What’s he trying to say?” he asks quietly, surprised he’s even asking at all.

“The Warrior pounding war drums does seem to signal the coming of war,” Manuel says. “Conflict at the very least.”

 _It’s coming,_ says a disembodied voice in Thomas head, achingly familiar, like it’s coming from a dream. “That’s the message?”

Manuel shrugs. “That’s what I would assume.”

“But you’re not sure,” Thomas says harshly.

“Well, nothing is ever _sure,_ but it seems clear to me. Elegguá is The Warrior. If he is sounding war drums, then war must certainly be coming.” Manuel glances over at Thomas. “At least to you. There’s been quite the war going on in the streets the over the last week. This is where you enter the fight.”

Thomas looks over at Manuel, the passing street lights casting roaming shadows across his face.

“Should I have entered it earlier?” Thomas asks. “I’ve been hearing them since…” he trails. _The first night in the hotel,_ he finishes in his head.

“Perhaps,” Manuel says. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re entering the fray now, not days ago.”  Manuel turns the wheel and suddenly they’re idling by the side of the road. “We’re here.”

Thomas looks up at the dark brick building and unfastens his seatbelt. Manuel waits patiently as Thomas climbs out of the car. “Thanks for the ride,” Thomas says. Manuel nods.

“Good luck, Thomas,” Manuel says. “Stay by Alexander’s side.”

Thomas nods stiffly, unable to meet Manuel’s eyes as he shuts the door. He turns around, hearing Manuel pull away from the curb and putter off into the early morning. Thomas takes a breath, steadies himself, walks up the short steps to the Washingtons’ door and rings the doorbell.

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and Thomas is so suddenly aware of the heavy tension in the air. It feels like there are a thousand eye on his back. Thomas stiffens, his hand still hovering above the doorbell. Slowly, he turns around as calmly as possible, eyes flicking up and down the empty street.

There’s no movement, no sound, eerily quiet for a city street. So when Thomas just faintly hears the sound of stone skittering across pavement, his attention and gaze his instantly drawn in that direction. Though he can’t see the actual pebbles thrown, he can see who threw them.

A slight woman with thin braids in a bun - someone Thomas hazily recognizes as Mrs. Washington - is crouched behind a car down the street. Silently, she raises one hand and motions with two fingers for Thomas to go to her. Thomas frowns, eyes narrowing until he spots the other person crouched on her other side.

Talmadge - back planted against the car - holds a pistol to his chest as he eyes Thomas from a distance. The gleam of the gun sends a chill down Thomas’ spine and he glances back out across the street.

And there, just briefly, Thomas catches a glimpse of red and a face poking out from behind a car on the other side of the street. Quickly, the person disappears, but the flash of movement is enough for Thomas.

Playing the part of an out-of-luck visitor, Thomas sighs and walks back down the stairs slowly. When he hits the sidewalk, he takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and breaks out into a sudden sprint towards Mrs. Washington.

Almost instantly, the Washington’s door - just behind where Thomas had been standing just a hair’s breadth of time before - explodes as someone opens automatic fire. Thomas tries to keep himself as low as possible while still running as hard as he can down the sidewalk. He hears a window shatter as the bullets follow him, slamming into the condos just around his head.

Talmadge pops up around the hood of his car-shield and returns fire, peppering precise shots through the windows of the car Thomas had seen the Redcoat behind. Thomas doesn’t spare the time to look, keeping his eyes glued to Mrs. Washington as she motions for him to move faster. Thomas finds an extra burst of speed to cross the last few feet before diving into a roll.

He pops up in a squatting position just beside Mrs. Washington, covered by the trunk of the car. “So good of you to join us Clark,’ Talmadge grunts, still firing shots across the street. “You quite enjoy disappearing for days at a time, don’t you?”

“Mr. Talmadge,” Mrs. Washington hisses, but Thomas shakes his head.

“It’s a fair statement,” he says, pulling out his stolen gun. “I’ll explain once this is over.” Thomas glances over the trunk of the car even as bullets slam into the other side. “What the hell is happening here?”

“Mr. Talmadge and Mr. Knox _interrupted_ my night with George and dragged him out here to talk business. Turns out, King’s boys were just waiting for us to show our faces.” Mrs. Washington explains. Thomas frowns.

“Why talk out here?” Thomas asks. He just barely catches her glimpse towards Talmadge.

“It’s not very important at the moment, is it Mr. Clark?” She replies.

“Where’s Washington?” Thomas asks, and she points down the road to the next car over, where Washington and Knox take turns firing over their own cover.

“I could use some backup?” Talmadge prompts, and Thomas jolts.

“Right,” he says, turning to steady his arms over the body of the car, eyes scanning for targets. Bullets fly around him and his training kicks in. He spots someone in red in the window of a building across the street and Thomas goes for it. He fires three shots in quick succession.

The window shatters brilliantly and the Redcoat falls out of sight. The sounds of gunfire seem to come in all directions, deafening bangs echoing across the empty street. Thomas can’t locate targets on sound, and no one is visible from his spot behind the car.

“We need a better position!” Washington calls, as if reading Thomas’ mind. He doesn’t even glance in their direction as he speaks, choosing instead to focus his eyes on where he’s shooting.

“Where?” Thomas calls back. “What ‘better position’ is there?” Washington knees and points down the street.

“David’s is just a few blocks that way,” he says. “If we move fast and watch out back, there’s a weapons store there, possibly some allies.”

A voice in Thomas’ head screams about civilian casualties, but he still nods. His own survival might not be that important anymore, but he needs to speak with Washington before his approaching doom.

“B.T., you first,” Thomas says. “Move to the next car, I’ve got you covered.” Talmadge shoots him an odd look before nodding. The man takes off out of cover without a warning and Thomas quickly starts raining shots in the direction of the car Talmadge had been targeting.

This time, as Talmadge sprints across the open space, there’s less fire from the other side. Talmadge gets to cover easily, crouching down beside Washington. Almost instantly, Talmadge is up and shooting again. “Get ready,” Thomas mutters to Mrs. Washington, who nods.

“I was born ready,” she responds. Thomas smiles despite himself, turning away to look over the car again. He fires a few rounds more, and then has to stop to switch out his ammo clip. But he freezes when he realizes that it’s gone silent. For a long heartbeat, there’s nothing, then -

“Is it clear?” Knox asks, voice as tense as his hand looks wrapped white-knuckled around his gun. “Did we win?”

“I don’t know,” Talmadge responds. “Mrs., on my mark.” Mrs. Washington nods and gets ready to run in their direction. “Clark, Henry, Boss, watch the street.” Thomas nods, eyes glued on the car across the way. “Now.”

Mrs. Washington bolts out from behind cover, Thomas just sees her move from the corner of his eye. He has his gun trained on the car, ready for any hint of movement -

Two gunshots in rapid succession startle Thomas, his head whipping around, looking for the sources. He scans the street, ready to open fire at any hint of movement. Then, his gaze travels further to the right, and suddenly he understands what happened.

Talmadge is standing, gun pointed up at the window Thomas had shot at earlier, watching it carefully. Mrs. Washington is on the ground, blood already starting to pool under her head.

“Window,” is all Talmadge says as Washington stares, wide-eyed at his wife’s body on the ground.

“I thought I got him,” Thomas says, throat suddenly dry. Talmadge’s jaw sets.

“Henry, go around the cars. I think we got them all,” Talmadge orders. Knox nods, steadies himself and shoots across the no-man’s-land of the street.

“I swore he went down,” Thomas repeats. “I swore he was -” he trails as he spots Washington’s face. He looks shell shocked as he slowly stands and takes a stumbling step towards Mrs. Washington.

“Clear!” Knox calls. Thomas lowers his weapon as Washington moves towards him. The man isn’t seeing anything around him, just focused on Mrs. Washington’s limp and bloodied form.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says. “I thought I got him.”

“You did,” responds Talmadge, and then there’s another gunshot. Thomas flinches, already bringing his gup up but Washington stops in his tracks. Red blossoms on his chest as Washington’s brows furrow curiously, and then his expression clears in understanding.

“So I was right then,” Washington says, then collapses. Behind, where he had been hidden behind the gang leader, stands Talmadge with his gun pointed towards where Washington was standing - and so by extension, Thomas.

“Put your gun down Clark,” Talmadge says, almost sounding bored as Knox comes rocketing out onto the street. Knox gets one look at Washington in a heap and stops.

“What the _fuck_ Benny?!” Knox exclaims. Talmadge just looks cools at him.

“What?”

“You said we’d only shoot him if he denied anything!” Knox says, eyes bugging out. Talmadge shrugs, but before he can speak, someone comes tearing out of an alley on the opposite side of the street.

Thomas starts when he sees the man’s bright red jacket, but he’s not quite sure where to turn his gun. Halfway across the street, the man skids to a stop. With his face thrown into harsh relief under the streetlights, Thomas recognizes Hercules Mulligan. There’s a moment of silence as Mulligan takes in the sight in front of him, huffing.

“Oh, goddamn it!” Mulligan shouts, gulping in air.

“If you’re here to warn us about the ambush, you’re a tad late,” Talmadge says. Thomas’ eyes widen, looking over at Mulligan.

“He shot Washington!” Thomas shouts, and Talmadge's’ gun clicks.

“Why don’t you be quiet and drop the gun?” Talmadge says, more an order than a request. Mulligan’s fists clench by his sides.

“I was coming to warn the boss,” he says. Talmadge cocks an eyebrow.

“You didn’t think to call me?”

“I didn’t need to warn you about yourself,” Mulligan snaps. Knox glances between Talmadge and Mulligan, fidgeting in place. There’s a long moment, Talmadge and Mulligan staring each other down.

“So, am I correct in thinking you’re not in my side?” Talmadge says, voice even.

“Hell no motherfucker,” Mulligan spits. Thomas looks at him in shock.

“Mulligan, run!” Thomas calls. “Run, tell Lafayette -” Pain explodes in Thomas’ left arm before he even processes the sound of the gunshot. A shout of surprise and pain rips itself out of Thomas’ throat and he drops his gun on impulse.

Thomas clasps his arm over the spot of blinding pain, blood already seeping through his fingers, shirt and down his arm. “ _Fuck,_ ” he curses, looking down at the bloodied mess of his upper arm.

“Watch him,” Talmadge commands, nodding to Knox. Thomas looks up to find Mulligan having taken off to the right. Tallmadge follows as Knox turns his heavy gaze on Thomas. There’s a pistol in his hand but it’s pointed at the ground.

“He fucking shot me!” Thomas shouts, the sight of his own blood sending panic signals to his brain.

“Just be quiet,” Knox says. “Be quiet and don’t try anything.” Thomas looks at him in disbelief, hand grasping his wound as tight as possible. The waves of pain emanating from his arm churn his stomach.

“Shit,” Thomas hisses, trying to get a peek at the damage, but there’s so much blood he can’t really see anything. He can flex his hand though, which is better than nothing.

When Thomas looks up, Knox is looking at the ground with wide eyes. Thomas follows his gaze and he finds Washington shakily trying to reach out with bloodied hands towards Thomas. Thomas gasps and - disregarding Knox - rushes to Washington’s side and drops to his knees.

“Washington,” Thomas breathes. “Oh my god, you’re alive!” He reaches out with his good arm. There’s blood weeping from the center of his back, clothes soaked and his breathing is labored with coughing and gasps.

“Martha,” Washington mutters, and Thomas glances briefly towards her still corpse. Thomas shakes his head, hand coming down on Washington’s shoulder.

“Leave her, I’m sorry,” Thomas says. “Stay still.” He tries to push Washington to the ground, ready to apply pressure to the hole in his back. If he’s fast and luck, he could save Washington’s life. Thomas looks up at Knox. “Call an ambulance!”

Knox doesn’t respond, just looks away, guilt shining in his eyes. Thomas frowns, but his attention is stolen by a huge hand grabbing onto his jacket.

“Alex,” Washington rasps. “You need to find him. Get him out of here.” Thomas’ heart sinks, but Washington isn’t done. “Son, I know Alex loves you.” his chest heaves with a gruesome sucking noise from the bloody wound. “And you love him just as much -” Washington descends into a wracking cough, blood seeping between his teeth and dripping down his chin.

“Save your strength,” Thomas says, good hand coming to grab Washington’s. His grip slips in the blood covering both their hands, but he manages to hold on.

“Take good care of him,” Washington says, his voice rough. Thomas feels like he’s about to cry, his face twisted in a harsh frown. He doesn’t have it in him to tell this dying man that Alexander is dead. So instead he nods.

“Yeah, of course,” Thomas replies. His tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth as he lies.

“Get him out of here,” Washington repeats. “You two have to make it out of this together.”

Thomas’ heart feels like it’s shattering, but he manages to nod. Without removing his grip on Thomas’ jacket, Washington looks over to where Mrs. Washington’s body still lies.

“My wife,” he gasps out, voice finally starting to fade and fail. “I want my wife.” His hand finally unlatches from Thomas and he reaches out as if to push himself to his feet or even possibly start to crawl across the street.

“Washington, sir, you shouldn’t move,” Thomas says, almost pleading. Washington turns to look at him, his eyes still sparkling with that same calm self-assuredness despite everything.

“I want my Martha,” is all Washington says, and Thomas understands. So, gently, as carefully as possible, Thomas helps Washington to stand. The man is almost dead weight and Thomas only has one arm, but he manages to shuffle the quickly failing man down the sidewalk.

There’s nothing beautiful about Washington hitting the ground again. Neither he nor Thomas have the control or dexterity to make it graceful, but Washington doesn’t cry out, he doesn’t even grunt as he falls to his knees beside his wife’s body. With one last surge of movement, Washington manages to collect Mrs. Washington into his arms, running one reverent hand over her cheek and chin.

Mrs. Washington’s eyes are still open, the lower right side of her jaw blown off. It’s a macabre kind of beauty, those wildly intelligent eyes having gone dark.

The cop inside Thomas says that it would have been impossible for someone across the street to shoot her like that. _Talmadge_ is the conclusion his brain reaches. _He fired both shots in case he needed to cover it up._

But Thomas watches, a silent, respectful distance away as Washington slowly slumps over, both his and Martha Washington’s bodies falling almost gently to the ground. They end up tangled in eachother’s arms, Washington lying almost protectively over her.

Thomas takes a deep, shuddering breath, good hand coming up to hold his still bleeding left arm as he turns to look at Knox. “Happy?” he asks. Knox just looks at the ground.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t end like that,” Knox says, voice strained.

“It was always going to end like this and you knew that,” comes Talmadge’s voice. Knox turns and Thomas looks over to find the man walking back over to them. A large blood splatter coast his front and he wipes a splotch from his face with his sleeve.

Knox winces as Talmadge looks around the street. “Alright,” Thomas says. “We can’t hang around forever. Eventually some law enforcement will show.”

“What do we do with him?” Knox asks, clearing his throat. He motions at Thomas, as if the subject of the question wasn’t obvious. Talmadge looks at Thomas and Thomas glares back.

“Mulligan gave me an idea,” Talmadge says. “Go grab a jacket off one of the dead Redcoats.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one year, everyone's dying.
> 
> On a serious note; thank you all so much for supporting me and this fic for the past year. No matter if you started reading on day one or yesterday, you all are so important and I couldn't ask for a better bunch of readers. I love you all so much and I wish you all the best today and for the rest of your lives.
> 
> So, this anniversary celebration comes in two parts! On my tumblr ([@TheInevitableSense](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theinevitablesense)) I've opened my ask box for questions of any sort. Got any burning questions about God Save, meta, future fic, my writing process, or even myself as a person, hop on over there and shoot me an ask! Anons are on so no worries. I'll take questions all day today, and into tomorrow.
> 
> Thank you all so much for a wonderful year!!
> 
> See you Friday (for real this time)!


	53. My Chapter Titles Are Like Panic! At The Disco Songs (Super Long And Vague As Fuck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of Panic! At The Disco, we're back at The Frenchman for some emotional discomfort.

Mulligan managed to make it almost three blocks before he was gunned down from the back. His body lies in a gutter, the back of his head blown open and his phone in his hand. Talmadge doesn’t even give Mulligan a second glance as they walk by, but Thomas catches a glimpse of his still open eyes and shudders.

The walk to _The Frenchman_ is silent, Knox leading the way while Tallmadge keeps the muzzle of his gun pressed into Thomas’ back. The way they’re walking, no one could notice that Thomas was being held at gunpoint. Blood from his wound is starting to seep through the Redcoat jacket he’s been forced to wear, soaking the cheap fabric through.

The morning sun starts to creep over the horizon as Knox turns the corner to the street _The Frenchman_ is on. “Hurry up before someone spots us,” Tallmadge growls. Knox just hums, picking up the pace as the destroyed front of the club comes into view.

When they reach the door, Knox pauses to pound on the door in a rhythmic pattern before he hauls it open. Thomas can hear a voice call from inside: “Henry, what’d the boss say?”

“Boss is dead,” Knox calls back just as Tallmadge shoves Thomas in through the door. “This piece of shit shot him.”

A collective gasp is heard through the assembled Sons members as Thomas raises his head. The only person in the crows Thomas recognizes is Lafayette, who sits at the bar. “That can’t be true,” they say, voice carrying over the low mutterings.

“It’s not!” Thomas shouts. “I didn’t do any -” Thomas grunts as Tallmadge shoves him further into the club, sending him stumbling forwards.

“Shot Hercules Mulligan too,” Tallmadge announces. “Would have shot us if we didn’t get the drop on him.”

“That’s not what happened -” Once again, Thomas is cut off as Tallmadge hits him squarely in the back with the butt of his gun, causing the air to rush from his lungs.

“Shut up,” Tallmadge hisses. Voices start up around Thomas, men and women alike muttering to themselves.

“Clark’s a Redcoat?” One of the boys mutters.

“He’s a traitor!” A woman responds. “Look at that jacket.”

“I’m not a Redcoat!” Thomas shouts, earning him a swift kick to the back of his knees. Thomas goes down, kneeling on the dirty club floor. “I swear, I didn’t do anything! Those two -”

“I said shut up!” Tallmadge snaps. “You betrayed us and killed Washington.”

“I didn’t!” Thomas looks around at the angry, faces of the crowd and manages to find Lafayette staring blankly down at him. “Talmadge shot him! He’s trying to set me up-”

Knox turns and kicks Thomas in the gut, causing him to double over onto the floor, gasping for air. He almost collapses onto the floor from the pain in his arm, “Liar!” someone from the crowd shouts.

“I’m not!” Thomas protests, but his shout is lost as the crowd begins to jeer at him.

“Fucking Redcoat traitor!” Someone shouts. “Probably helped set John up!”

“No wonder he didn’t let Alexander come back!”

“Probably planned on killing him too!”

“Probably has!”

“Fucker!”

“Please!” Thomas shouts, trying to be heard. He doesn’t dare stand. “Just fucking listen to me! I didn’t -”

“Shut up motherfucker!”

“Someone put a bullet in him!”

“Everyone shut up!” Tallmadge hollers, and the shouts quiet down. “Does anyone have any objections to putting this traitor down?”

Thomas’ eyes widen, he looks around until he catches Lafayette’s eye. They’re the only one who doesn’t look livid, who doesn’t cheer or jeer their support of Thomas’ fate.

“Please, Laf!” Thomas calls. “You know this isn’t right! You know this isn’t who I am!”

“Lafayette?” Tallmadge asks, and the crowd quiets again. Lafayette hesitates.

“Is the boss really dead?” They ask, and Thomas’ heart sinks.

“Lafayette!” He calls even as Tallmadge nods. Lafayette pauses, looking down at Thomas, then back up at Tallmadge.

“We should at least hear his side of the story,” Lafayette says. Instantly, the crowd starts to boo and jeer at them, and Tallmadge frowns.

“Listen to whatever lies he’ll concoct?” Tallmadge asks. “It’s his word against ours, and who believes a fucking redcoat traitor?” The crowd shouts their agreement as Tallmadge levels his gun at Thomas’ face.

Thomas looks up at him, and realizes with a pang that this is the last thing he’ll ever get to see. So he shuts his eyes and calls up the image of Alexander’s face to mind, and waits for it. Sitting on his knees, Thomas waits for death.

And then the crowd’s cheering dies slightly to be replaced with confused muttering. “Actually,” Tallmadge says. “Why don’t we have a little trial. Let Clark _prove_ he’s not a traitor.” Thomas opens his eyes to find the gun has been lowered away from his face.

“Benny,” Knox starts, “what are you doing?”

Tallmadge waves him off, grabs the nearest man and says: “Go get Philip and tell him to bring the trash up.” The Sons member nods and disappears into the basement. Thomas looks up at Tallmadge with the same confusion as everybody else. Knox tries to grab onto Tallmadge’s shoulder, but the man just steps back.

Tallmadge picks his way up to Washington’s booth, standing up there like Washington would during meetings. Thomas glances about, but the crowd just shifts around him, with no avenue for escape. Lafayette won’t look away from him, and there’s something brewing behind their cold eyes.

Tallmadge gets settled at his podium as the man returns, dragging Eaker up from the basement with Philip in tow. Eaker is bloodied all to hell, his wrists and ankles bound tightly with red-stained rope. Long gone is any hint of Thomas’ care for him, and his face is bruised and swollen almost beyond recognition.

“Drop him on the floor, there, just in front of Clark,” Tallmadge orders, and the man complies. “Thank you, Monroe.”

Monroe nods and slides back into the crowd, eyes dancing with rage as he looks down at Thomas. Tallmadge starts speaking again. “For those of you who don’t know, Clark here was the one who provided medical care for our prisoner.” The crowd starts to jeer again, but Tallmadge just holds up one hand.

“So, it’s my thought, we give Clark a chance to redeem himself.” Tallmadge holds up a gun, the dark metal shining in the light.  “He’s got one way to prove he’s not a Redcoat.” Tallmadge throws the gun onto the floor, and it skitters along the ground until it comes to rest before Thomas.

“If he’s really innocent, he’ll shoot Eaker right here and now.”

Thomas jerks his head up to look at Tallmadge in shock. Tallmadge smirks down at him, the smile just the quirk of his lip. “If he doesn’t, he’s guilty. Either way, we’ll get rid of Redcoat scum.”

The crowd mutters around Thomas as Thomas slowly reaches for the weapon. Eaker, with the eye not swollen shut, looks up at Thomas, his expression guarded. Behind him, Philip looks vaguely sick, glancing between Tallmadge and Thomas quickly.

Thomas picks up the gun with a trembling hand and levels it between Eaker’s eyes. _It’s just one shot,_ Thomas thinks to himself. _Do it and get people to listen. It’s your only chance._ Thomas swallows, and cocks the gun slowly.

The crowd around him is silent now, waiting to see what Thomas will do. Eaker stares him dead in the eye, expression unreadable. But he doesn’t look away, doesn’t shut his eyes even as Thomas’ finger comes to rest on the trigger. _Look at him, it would be a mercy at this point,_ says a voice in Thomas’ head. _Save yourself and help him_.

But Eaker is defenseless, practically prone on his knees with his hands bound. _It’s killing him in cold blood,_ pipes up another part of Thomas’ head. Thomas grits his jaw and tries to shut it out. _He didn’t do anything. He doesn’t deserve it. You can’t do this_.

_Yes, I can,_ Thomas thinks. He goes to squeeze the trigger, feeling like he has to will every tiny movement with everything inside him.

“Shoot him or tell us the truth, Clark,” Tallmadge commands above him. _The truth._ An idea sparks in Thomas’ head. A dangerous, stupid idea but it’s the only thing he’s got.

Slowly, Thomas lets go of the gun with one hand to raise both hands above his head, his left arm shaking from the pain. The gun dangles from one finger as he takes a deep breath. “I’m not a Redcoat,” he announces, “I’m a cop.”

A gasp rises from the Sons as Thomas looks up at Tallmadge. “My name is Thomas, and I used to work for the FBI.” He says the words slowly, weighing every word in his head before he commits. “I was sent undercover to help bring George King down, however things got complicated. All you have to know is that I am no longer an Agent, in fact, I’m wanted for murder myself.”

Thomas looks Tallmadge in eye, the man’s expression guarded and neutral. “I am not a Redcoat, and I did not shoot Washington or Mulligan.”

There’s a moment of silence, Thomas can feel the wide-eyed looks of shock from the crowd on him. Tallmadge’s tiny smirk grows wider.

“Finally, the truth,” he says. Thomas’ heart sinks as Tallmadge leans forward on the podium. “I was wondering what it would take for you to admit it.”

Thomas’ eyes widen. “You knew?” he asks, all the power from his voice gone. “How?”

Tallmadge points over at Philip, who winces. “Philip speaks French.”

“I’m sorry,” Philip says, holding himself, unable to meet Thomas’ look of shock. “I learned while I was away with the Schuylers. I wanted be more useful and to impress Pop, so I didn’t tell him. And then when I figured it out…” he trails.

“He came to me to confirm it,” Tallmadge says. “Asked me to make sure you wouldn’t betray us. But look what happened. You endangered all our lives, turned Hamilton into a snitch, and murdered Washington to cover it all up.”

Thomas’ eye widen. “I didn’t kill Washington!” He exclaims.

“Why would murdering the boss cover it up?” Monroe asks. Tallmadge turns his smile on Monroe.

“Because Thomas left out the part where Washington knew he was a cop.” Confused mutterings start up even as Tallmadge continues. “Washington made a deal with the FBI to save his own ass once King came down and the cops turned on us. Think about it. How else did Clark and his little sidekick Lewis rise in the ranks so damn fast?”

“We don’t know where they came from,” pipes up a voice from the crowd. “They just waltzed in like they owned the place.”

Tallmadge’s smile grows just the tiniest bit wider. “Exactly. They came out of nowhere and just started throwing their authority around. And Washington trusted them.”

“Who else knew?” Monroe asks, taking a step towards Thomas. Thomas shies away, pulling into himself even as the rest of the crowd jostles towards him as well.

“Adams knew,” Tallmadge says, answering for Thomas. “Adams, Laurens, Hamilton... _Lafayette._ ”

The crowd shifts, shocked mutterings and gasps sounding as everyone moves to clear a space around Lafayette. They just look up at Tallmadge, face blank.

“All of upper leadership knew but me,” Tallmadge hisses. “Isn’t that true Lafayette?”

“Yes,” Lafayette answers, and the crowd’s muttering grows louder. “But there was no deal. The FBI agreed to leave us alone if we let them have King.”

Tallmadge scoffs. “You honestly believe that? You honestly think this _pig_ -” Tallmadge points down at Thomas - “Wouldn’t have turned on you at the last second. On all of us?”

Lafayette pauses, and glances down at Thomas. Thomas winces, drawing in on himself, and Lafayette’s eyes dance with something Thomas can’t read. “They would have upheld the bargain,” Lafayette says. Tallmadge hums curiously.

“Is that true, Thomas?” Tallmadge asks.

Thomas looks down at the floor. “No,” he mutters. “Tallmadge is right. That was the original plan. But!” Thomas looks up sharply. “Now you know! I’ve told you, and I’m not an agent anymore! And I didn’t shoot Washington!”

Lafayette recoils, leaning into their bar. Tallmadge snickers. “See?” He says. “Scum.”

“Thomas,” Lafayette breathes. Thomas hangs his head as Tallmadge comes down from the booth.

“So, we’ve got two traitors in our midst it seems,” Tallmadge says. “A cop and a rat.” Tallmadge practically prances over to Thomas and plucks the gun from his hand. “But, just like with Thomas, I’ll be kind. I’ll give Lafayette a chance to prove themself. Now that they know the truth, maybe they see the error of their ways.”

The crowd parts as Tallmadge makes his way over to Lafayette. He holds the gun out to them. “Shoot the cop, prove you’re still one of us.”

Thomas looks up at Lafayette with wide eyes. Tallmadge steps aside as Lafayette stands from the bar stool. They take a few steps towards Thomas.

“Laf?” Thomas asks, voice soft. Lafayette looks down at him, no sympathy or kindness in his eyes. Thomas sucks in a hissing breath, the crowd pulsing around them.

Lafayette looks at the pistol in their hand, looks up at Thomas, and then back down again. Tallmadge just smiles, arms folded across his chest as Lafayette raises the gun. Thomas flinches, waiting for it, but instead, Lafayette throws the pistol onto the ground.

It bounces, skittering its way back over to where Thomas still kneels. “No,” Lafayette says, turning back to Tallmadge. Tallmadge’s smile falls.

“What?”

“I’m done,” Lafayette announces. “I’m finished with all this. Everyone’s either dead or dying and I can’t take any more.” They walk away from Thomas, towards both Tallmadge and the front door. “I’m leaving. _The Frenchman’s_ yours. Don’t follow me.”

“Lafayette -” Tallmadge says as Lafayette pushes past him, jostling him on the shoulder. Lafayette whirls, looking at the crowd with a gleam in their eyes.

“If I see anyone by my apartment, I will blow their fucking heads off,” they announce, then look down at Thomas. “ _Anyone_.”

Talmadge’s eyes glitter with rage. “Lafayette, get back here and shoot the pig -”

Lafayette glares him down, cold steel on their face and in their voice as they speak. “You do not order me around. Washington was the only man who could do that, and you are no Washington.”

With that, Lafayette turns, takes one step towards the door, and then the wall beside Tallmadge’s head explodes with a _bang_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be honest, how many of you forgot that Tallmadge was never told that Thomas was a cop?
> 
> (Shout out to Sylphie (again, if you still read) for calling 'Philip knows French' back in chapter 18.)
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> Benjamin Tallmadge was the leader of The Culper Ring, the American spy ring during the Revolutionary War. He really wasn't that much of a dick, not even close to how I portray him here, but again, this isn't RPF. After the war, Tallmadge served in the House Of Representatives for Connecticut. He was alright.
> 
> See you Friday


	54. Would The Death Roulette Stop For Half A Second, My Hands Hurt From Spinning It So Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seriously I've got blisters

A heartbeat of stunned silence - everyone in the club looking up at the bullet hole now in the wall - is broken as Philip launches himself at Eacker’s back. Thomas whips his head around to find the two boys struggling for a gun - the one Lafayette had thrown. In the drama, Eacker must have picked it up while all eyes were off him.

Thomas expects the scuffle to be over quickly. Eacker is far too fucked up, Philip too healthy, and Monroe lurches forward toward the wrestling duo. For a moment, it looks as if Thomas is right: Eacker puts up but a moment of weak struggle then goes defeatedly limp. Philip holds him pinned to the floor for a moment, making sure Eacker is soundly beaten before reaching for the weapon in Eacker’s limp hand.

The moment Philip’s weight shifts Eacker surges again, a sudden new-found strength that makes Philip yelp in shock. In the space of a blink, Eacker is standing, has one arm thrown around Philip’s neck and the gun pointed to his head. Philip struggles against his hold - Monroe rushing forward - until the gun clicks.

“Everyone freeze,” Eacker calls, “or she gets it.”

“I’m a man,” Philip snaps back. Eacker rolls his eyes, adjusts the barrel of the gun to rest flush against Philip’s temple. Fear flashes in Philip’s eyes as Eacker fiddles with the trigger.

“Whatever freak.” Eacker’s eyes glimmer as he looks over the frozen crowd. Monroe wavers, looking up at Talmadge for instructions. Talmadge, for his part, watches Eacker with angry but thoughtful eyes. Eacker’s gaze lands on Thomas, still cradling his arm on the floor. “You really a cop?” Eacker asks. Thomas swallows.

“Was,” Thomas replies, eyes flicking between Eacker’s determined expression and Philip’s. The younger man is struggling to contain his fear, attempting to contort his features into a look of anger. “Not so much anymore.”

Eacker hums to himself, pauses for a moment, then nods. “Good enough for me. Come on.,” he says. Thomas hesitates, blinking in shock as Eacker sighs. “I’m getting out of here and I’m offering to let you come with.” Still Thomas hesitates, glancing back at the crowd. Eacker cocks an eyebrow. “Last chance man. They’ll kill you if you stay here.”

A part of Thomas says that it wouldn’t be so bad to die, but his survival instinct and desire for justice kick in and he struggles to his feet. He stumbles across the floor, his footsteps the only sound in the silence. When Thomas comes to stand behind Eacker, he looks back over the crowd.

The Sons members glance between each other, fidgeting and nervous. On the far side of the shifting crowd, both Talmadge and Lafayette look back at him. Lafayette’s face is unreadable, simply watching to see what Thomas does, their gaze cold.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Eacker calls. “Me, Thomas - right?” Thomas nods. “Me, Thomas and Philip are all going to leave, and not a single one of you is going to follow us, okay?”

“You’re full of it if you don’t realize you’re outnumbered,” Talmadge says, calm despite the fire in his eyes. “And the pig won’t shoot. He wouldn’t shoot at a crowd even if he was armed.”

“Any of you try anything, and I’ll put a bullet in the freak’s head,” Eacker announces. Something flashes in Lafayette’s eyes as Talmadge shrugs.

“And then what?” Talmadge asks, “What’s stopping us from lighting you up once you do that? Shoot him, see if I care.”

Philip’s eyes widen to the size of planets as Monroe looks up at Talmadge in shock. “What the hell B.T.?” Monroe exclaims.

“Philip’s been loyal,” Knox says from where he stands in the shadows. “He’s the one who tipped us off to Thomas in the first place.”

“Acceptable losses,” Talmadge says. “One of us for a Redcoat and a traitor cop.”

Philip’s hands come up to scrabble at Eacker’s arm, renewing his fight to escape. Monroe steps out to stand between Talmadge as the renegade trio.

“You’re not sacrificing Philip,” Monroe says. “That’s not what the Boss would want.”

“Washington’s dead,” Talmadge snaps. “I’m in charge and I say whoever shoots these bastards first gets _The Frenchman_.”

Muttering break out amongst the men, Thomas sees someone pull a gun only to have the man next to him shove him.

“The Boss would let them up, then rescue Philip and get revenge later!” Monroe shouts. A few supporting voices pipe up from around the crowd. Talmadge’s lip quirks in a frown.

“Do I have to label you a traitor too Monroe?” Talmadge asks. He too is met with voices of approval.

“If anything, you’re the traitor here!” Monroe responds. “This isn’t who we are! We left King because this is how he treated us!” Even more voices begin to shout their agreements, opposite voices rising to meet them.

The crowd begins to shift, splitting into two as a once-united mob begins to turn on one another. Talmadge glances over the crowd. He starts to speak, but Thomas’ attention is stolen by a gentle kick to his leg.

“While they’re distracted,” Eacker mutters, jerking his head in the direction of the back door. Monroe starts to shout over the growing din of smaller arguments. Thomas glances at the crowd; the only people not involved in the argument being Lafayette and Knox. Lafayette has their eyes locked on Thomas and Philip while Knox stands quietly in the corner, worrying his lip between his teeth.

Thomas looks over at Eacker and nods. The man starts to backpedal, dragging a still squirming Philip along with him.

“Clark,” Philip begs, turning his pleading eyes on Thomas, “I’m sorry about telling -”

“Shut up,” Eacker hisses, squeezing Philip’s throat tighter and Philip’s words cut off. THomas winces and looks away. He’ll help Philip when they’re out, at least that’s what he tells himself. He feels like everything inside him has gone cold.

His eyes are scanning the crowd in just the right place to see the first punch get thrown. A woman - one of Monroe’s supporters, Thomas thinks - decks another woman in the face and she goes sprawling.

From there, the fight explodes across the gathered Sons. Soon the crowd is a writhing, tussling mess. People cry out and scream obscenities as Talmadge watches with cold eyes. At some point, he’d climbed up onto the bar and now stands above the crowd. Monroe disappears into the throbbing mass, desperately trying to pull people apart.

“Let’s go!” Eacker insists, almost at the door. Thomas - with one last look at Lafayette - silently rushes around to prop open the door for Eacker. The cool air from the dawn outside rushes in around Thomas.

Eacker pulls Philip into the alley and Thomas lets the door shut behind them. It’s still outside, quiet but for the sounds of the city waking up on the street. For a moment, Thomas thinks the door is going to come bursting open, but her manages to push a loose cinder block in front of it before there’s even a hint of pursuit. When he turns around, Eacker is scanning the alley, not having removed the gun from Philip’s head.

“My apartment’s in Hell’s Kitchen,” Eacker says. “We go there and call Reynolds.” Thomas’ breath catches in his throat, but it makes sense. Eacker was locked in a basement, he wouldn’t know.

“We can’t call Reynolds,” he says. Eacker frowns, looking over at him.

“Why not? We’ll break the ex-cop news as gentle as possible. I know how to talk to him -”

But Thomas is already shaking his head. “He’d likely shoot me on sight,” Thomas says. “It’s a long story.”

Eacker purses his lips. “I have to get in contact with him,” he says. There’s a moment of silence, then he speaks again. “Are we splitting up then?”

“We have to,” Thomas responds. There’s a wriggling idea in the back of his head about following Eacker, about using him to track down Reynolds and King, but before it’s fully formed, Eacker sighs.

“Alright man, good luck,” Eacker says. “I’d get out of the city if I were you. Seems like you’re out of allies.”

Thomas winces, but then looks at Philip. “What about him?” He asks. Eacker glances at the side of Philip’s head.

“I’m taking it with me. I gotta have something to give to Reynolds so he won’t kill me either.”

“No,” Philip blurts, “Clark, you can’t let -”

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut up?” Eacker hisses. Thomas fidgets as Philip squirms in Eacker’s hold. _That’s Alexander’s son,_ Thomas thinks, _more or less_.

“Can’t you just let him go?” Thomas asks. Eacker’s brow furrows.

“Didn’t you just hear me? If I show up at HQ without anything for them, they’ll shoot me because I got myself caught.” There’s a gleam of fear buried in Eacker’s eyes. “You get it, don’t you?”

“Sure, sure,” Thomas says. _Appease_. Thomas has learned that the hard way with Reynolds and Seabury and wires under his nails - “But you don’t have to trade someone’s life for yours.”

“What’s the other option man?” Eacker asks, easily able to look at Thomas over Philip’s shorter stature. Philip’s panic is starting to fade, though Thomas can see the fear still buried in his eyes. _Come on Thomas,_ Thomas thinks, _it’s just hostage negotiations_.

“You don’t have to go back to the Redcoats,” Thomas says. To Eacker’s alarmed and shocked look he continues: “Let Philip go and you and I will figure something else out.”

Eacker’s brow furrows with a slight shake of his head. He says: “Nah, it’s the ‘Coats or nothing. There isn’t anything else to figure out.”

The familiar words strike a chord in Thomas. _It’s the ‘Coats - it’s South Street - or nothing_. “There’s more than the gang life,” Thomas says, but Eacker just scoffs.

“Oh, that’s _rich_ from the ex-cop,” Eacker says. “What would you know?”

“Look,” Thomas starts, “I’ve seen boys like you turn their lives around -”

“With what?” Eacker snaps. Anger is starting to flood his features; his arm tightens around Philip’s neck. “With what Mr. Cop? I ain’t got shit. The boss pays for my place, my food, all most friends are ‘Coats, I don’t have anything without them.”

Thomas takes a breath. “We can figure something out,” he says. “With an education and a job -”

“Don’t you think I haven’t tried that man?” Eacker asks. “People like you don’t teach people like me, you don’t hire people like me.”

“I can help you!” Thomas says. “You don’t have to go back there!”

Eacker’s jaw sets. “The boss has been good to me. It’s the only thing I’ve got going for me so you’re crazy if you think whatever you can do is better than that. You can’t even take care of yourself,” he spits.

“You can always start over,” Thomas says. “Another city, another state, you can try again.”

Eacker shakes his head. “I’ve been locked into the ‘Coats ever since they handed me a gun and lead me into that church.”

Thomas stops, looking at Eacker with wide eyes. “You were at Safe Harbors?” he asks. Eacker flinches, looking down at the ground, his body relaxing. Philip wears the same expression of shock that Thomas does.

“Yeah,” Eacker says quietly, “there ain’t no coming back from what I did in there.”

Thomas’ thought process stutters to a stop. All he can think to ask is: “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Eacker responds. Despite everything, Thomas feels his heart crack at the admission. He opens his mouth to speak, but he just manages to catch a glimpse of Philip’s rageful expression before he stomps on Eacker’s foot.

Eacker lets out a grunt of pain, his arm loosening even further from around Philip, and the shorter boy spins. He puts a knee in Eacker’s stomach before going for the gun.

“Philip!” Thomas exclaims, rushing forward as the two boys tussle for the weapon. His training kicks in as he looks for an opening to disarm, going to reach into the skirmish -

The gun fires.

All three people in the alley freeze, a long heartbeat of silence passes as they all try and figure out what happened. There’s no blossoming pain anywhere on Thomas’ body, no burn of a gunshot wound or feeling of blood spilling across his body. Then Eacker steps back, gun still in hand, eyes wide. There’s another heartbeat before Philip staggers back - a single step - and collapses.

Thomas rushes to catch him - his arm screaming in pain as all the boy’s limp weight falls into his arms. There’s a rush of footsteps, and when Thomas glances up, Eacker is already halfway to the street. Thomas lets him go as he struggles to keep Philip from hitting the ground.

“Philip,” Thomas breathes. “Where - oh god.” There’s blood spilling from his hip and between his left arm and torso. Philip looks up at him with wide eyes.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Philip asks, blood already gathering in his mouth. The next moment his whole body shudders, his body pitching forward in an instinctive attempt to curl in on his wounds. Philip lets out a keen of pain as Thomas scrabbles to keep him from hitting the ground.

“Oh, okay, I’ve got got you,” Thomas mutters, glancing about. He can’t take Philip back inside - who knows what state everything is in in there. He doesn’t have a phone, no one around that’s willing to help, the only option Thomas really has is the street

He looks down at Philip, whose eyes have already started to glaze over. “No!” Thomas exclaims, doing his best to pick Philip up while his arm screams in agony. “No, you have to stay with me Philip, you gotta stay awake

Philip grunts as Thomas gets the boy settles in his arms and stumbles out of the alley. He might not have been able to help Washington, but Philip is a different story. Thomas just has to get him to a hospital. Ignore the blinding pain wracking his body from the hole in his arm and get the boy to a hospital.

“Here we go Philip,” Thomas says. “You know this area better than I do. Why don’t you give me some directions to the nearest hospital, hm?” He looks down, hoping for a response, only to find Philip’s eyes fluttering shut. “Hey! Gotta keep your eyes open for me, can you do that?”

Philip’s eyes crawl back open, and he takes a shuddering breath. “I want Alex,” he rasps, “I want my papa.”

Thomas swallows and doesn’t say what he’s thinking, that _hopefully_ Philip won’t get to see Alexander yet. “It’s going to be alright,” Thomas says, “you’ve made him so proud, but you gotta focus on staying awake and helping me to the hospital. Do we go left or right?”

Thomas sees Philip’s lips move feebly, little red drops of blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth, but no sound comes out. Thomas takes his best guess at reading his lips and goes right, away from the Frenchman. The sun is only really starting to break into day, the sky painted with streaks of red.

“Alright, it’s all going to be alright. Alexander said so, it’s going to be alright,” Thomas rambles, more for himself than Philip. “Just gotta find a hospital. Or even a clinic or an urgent care at this point.” An old memory - though perhaps not all that old in the grand scheme of things - surfaces of a drive to an urgent care with Alexander. Thomas tries to map where that place would be, but he can’t recall directions, only _‘doctors killed my mom -_ ’

“Doctors won’t hurt you Philip,” Thomas says. “They’ll help, and you’ll be alright. It’s fine, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Thomas turns away from a street full of apartment buildings. _Not there._ He continues to ramble condolences. “Everything’s going to be alright, you just watch. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Just like the last time Thomas carried a bleeding man through the streets of New York, no one is willing to help them. Thomas doesn’t even think to ask for directions, he feels so alone. Buildings stretch up around him, it feels so claustrophobic, the old brick threatens to close in around them. He’s so lost. Faceless people pass by, and it’s just him on these crowded city streets. Him and a dying boy. He just keeps walking; he has to save Alexander’s son.

“You still awake?” Thomas asks, looking down to find Philip’s eyes still thankfully open. “Good, you gotta stay awake for me. You gotta stay awake for Alexander. You’re doing so well, it’s… going…”

Thomas realizes Philip isn’t blinking. His eyes stare up at the sky, completely empty. Any sense of warmth from the body in his arms has faded, the shallow rise and fall of Philip’s chest stilled.

Thomas’s heart freezes over, going as cold and still as the corpse in his arms. He stops walking. He simply looks down at Philip’s dead face, trying to process the unimaginable. Thomas feels like his body is going to give up, just like Philip’s.

Somehow, he finds himself sat down on the sidewalk, back against a brick building, holding Philip in his arms as tightly as possible. He feels like he can’t comprehend any of what’s happened anymore. Philip is dead and nothing is fair and nothing makes sense anymore.

The sun rises further. The red sky drips away slowly. Pedestrians pass by without a word. Blood runs across Thomas’ arms and legs, onto the sidewalk. Thomas is empty. His brain refuses to work, he feels like he’s watching things through a foggy window. A church bell rings in the distance. Someone mutters ‘fuck’ in French.

A hand comes down on Thomas’ shoulder and he flinches, drawing away from the contact. The other person startles slightly as well. “Thomas?” They ask. Thomas looks up slowly, feeling like he’s moving through water, and finds Lafayette looking back at him.

“He’s dead,” is all Thomas can say, his voice thick and cracked. It’s almost like he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood himself.

Lafayette’s expression softens ever so slightly. They crouch down next to Thomas. “Give him to me,” they mutter, gently reaching for Philip. Thomas flinches again, drawing Philip’s limp form even further into his arms.

“No,” Thomas says, voice a thousand miles away. “You can’t take him. I can’t leave him. A - Alexander would never forgive me.”

“Alexander will understand,” Lafayette says. “We need to go somewhere safe.” But Thomas isn’t listening, he has his face pressed against the top of Philip’s head.

“He was just a kid Laf,” Thomas says. “He never should have been involved.” The image of Eacker’s shocked, terrified face appears in Thomas’ head. “Just a kid,” he repeats.

“We need to go,” Lafayette repeats gently. “You need to leave him.”

“I can’t -”

“Thomas Jefferson, you can and will,” Lafayette says, any hints of kindness or gentility gone. “There are police on their way to _The Frenchman_ , and when they pass this way, they will not care that you are or were an Agent. All they will see is the blood on your clothes and the body in your arms and I do not think you want to answer the questions they’ll have.”

Thomas looks up at Lafayette almost helplessly. They sigh, but this time when they reach for Philip, Thomas lets them take him. Carefully, reverently, Lafayette lays Philip down against the wall and shuts his eyes. Thomas awkwardly staggers to his feet, his body barely listening to him.

For a second, both Thomas and Lafayette stand there, looking down at Philip’s limp, broken-looking body. “We can’t take him with us,” Lafayette mutters, regretfully.

Thomas frowns. He can’t just leave him there like that, sprawled out for all the world to look at. So slowly, he sheds both the Redcoat jacket and the suit jacket, hands the cheap gang symbol to Lafayette, and carefully drapes the nicer, black fabric over Philip’s body.

The jacket is much too large, it manages to cover Philip’s head and torso. Without a word, Lafayette hands Thomas the Redcoat jacket and sheds their own grey hoodie. With just as much reverence that Thomas had, Lafayette lays their hoodie over Philip’s legs and feet. They step back, and Thomas looks at the odd burial shroud.

Thomas is too empty to even cry.

Lafayette gently takes a hold of Thomas’ arm and leads him away from the covered lump that is Philip. Thomas looks at it - stumbling behind Lafayette blindly - until it can’t be seen anymore.

The sky is a clear blue overhead. The word still spins mercilessly into a new day. Thomas doesn’t think he’s ever hates the movement of time more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so what was once a red herring now actually comes to pass.
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> George Eacker really was almost ten years older than Philip during the duel. He was a 27 year old man fighting a 19 year old kid. The day before he shot Philip, Eacker dueled one of Philip's friends Richard Price, though no shots were exchanged during that duel. He was also an ardent Aaron Burr supporter, but after he killed the young Hamilton, even Burr condemned him for his actions. Eacker died three years after Philip from an illness.
> 
> See you Friday


	55. The Death Roulette Spun And Gave Me Confusing Orders So This Is How I Interpreted It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette pulls Thomas to safety only to watch him break

Thomas isn't sure how long it takes or how exactly they end up at Lafayette's apartment, but here they are. Lafayette seems to have learned from the past and moved the flag on their door so the peephole is uncovered.

Lafayette tugs open the door and ushers Thomas inside. A moment later, Lafayette turns, locks the door, slides the deadbolt home and even secures the chain at the top. Thomas just stands there, looking around at the familiar, opulent apartment in a daze. The bright colors are almost too much even in the silence.

Lafayette breathes a heavy sigh against the door. “There is a shower -”

“Thank you,” Thomas says, interrupting Lafayette. The other person blinks and Thomas turns to face him.

“For what?”

“By bringing me here you're officially harboring a fugitive,” Thomas explains, himself surprised at how clinical he sounds. Lafayette’s brown furrows as Thomas starts to walk towards the door. “Thank you, but I think I should be leaving now.”

Lafayette reaches out to grab Thomas’ arm, but Thomas yanks it away before they touch. “You cannot just leave,” Lafayette protests, but Thomas nods.

“It's best I go,” he says. “You really don't want to help me.”

“Thomas -”

“No, I know, I understand,” Thomas says. He tries to reach for the chain lock only to have Lafayette step in front of the door and bat his hand away.

“Why would I not want to help you?” Lafayette asks.

“Why wouldn't you?” Thomas asks. “Because I'm the reason all your friends are dead, that's why!”

At Thomas’ admission, Lafayette stills. Something dances behind their guarded expression, and Thomas continues: “Laurens. He's dead because I was selfish.” On the last word, Thomas’ breath catches. Lafayette's eyes widen and Thomas takes a step back. “If it weren't for me, he'd be alive. Washington - Washington dying, that's on me. If it weren't for me, he'd be alive. Talmadge wouldn't have - if it wasn't for me - he wouldn't have had to - it wouldn't have happened. It's all because of me”

“What -”

“Philip” Thomas looks down at his bloodied hands, throat starting to close. “I tried to talk Eaker down but Philip went for the - the gun and it went off and I tried to save him - I just wasn't fast enough. I wasn't fast enough to save him Laf.

“Adams, Greene, Hercules -” his breathing starts to hitch, his face burns -“Talmadge and Knox and everyone else wants you dead now because of me -” Thomas tries to breathe, tries to keep himself calm even as he feels the first tears start to spill.

“Thomas, calm down,” Lafayette says, gently reaching out only for Thomas to jerk backwards.

“- and I took Alexander away from you - I took him because I thought it would keep him safe, that - that _I_ could keep him safe, but -” Thomas’ voice wavers, he feels himself start to shake -“but now he’s - he’s -” the word gets caught on Thomas’ lips. His arms come up to hold himself as Lafayette takes another step forward.

“Thomas, it's alright -”

“No!” The words hit Thomas like a punch to the gut. “No, he lied to me. Alex lied. He said everything was going to be alright - that everything was going to be alright but he lied to me because everything's not alright. He said - he said it would be alright and now he’s dead!”

With that, Thomas bursts into sobs. Lafayette’s eyes widen, confusion and shock playing out across their features. “What?” They ask.

“He's dead and it's all my fault Laf,” Thomas sobs, “I pissed him off and I got him captured and I let him hurt Sam and I took him away and I couldn't convince him to leave and I got myself sent away and left him alone and now he's gone.” Thomas is blubbering, ranting through sobs and gasping for air. He holds himself tighter as everything finally starts to crash down into reality around him.

“Sent away?” Lafayette asks. Thomas nods, his whole body shaking. He has to force himself steady enough to speak.

“James had to arrest me and send me to D.C. but King nearly blew - blew my sister up so they sent me to Monticello. They sent me home and I found these old family photographs and Sammy might have been my brother -” the words just spill out on impulse, his eyes screwing shut and head hung. He can't look at Lafayette anymore -“and King called my sister but I picked up and he - he - that bastard made me listen. He made me listen as he - as he hurt him. They cut out his tongue and made him scream and then - and then he shot him and all I could do was listen!”

“Thomas, none -”

“He killed him Laf, he killed my Alex and I wasn't there. I wasn't there to save him. I wasn't - I wasn't -” Thomas cuts off as the sobs overpower his words. Lafayette wavers in front of him as he manages to speak again.

“S- so I broke out of house arrest and came up here to find King but then - Talmadge killed Washington and I couldn't do anything to stop it. I tried and he told me to take care of A -Alex - and he didn't know - he didn't know so I lied - I had to lie - I couldn't - couldn't tell him, not then.”

Thomas’ breath comes even faster now, he's almost hyperventilating. His eyes fly open as a hand comes down on his shoulder and he violently flings Lafayette off of him.

“Don't - Don't -” Thomas struggles to speak - “don't touch me, I - I killed everybody and there's so much blood - I can't tell - tell who’s blood is who’s -” Thomas looks up at Lafayette. “So much blood. All of it my - my fault.”

“Please, just calm down,” Lafayette says. “It's not your fault and Alex -”

Thomas gasps, almost choking on his own breath. “I - I never told him I - I never told him I loved him.” His heart clenches as he remembers. “He told me it wasn't the right time. I should have - he didn't know. Laf, he didn't know I loved him. He didn't know and he died thinking I didn't but I did - I do - I love him so much.”

Thomas pushes his hands into his eyes, tears overwhelming him. His arm burns with the movement and he’s forced to drop it back down. “Oh my god,” he sobs, “Alexander, I’m so sorry -” with his one free eye he glances around the apartment, as if Alexander is simply going to appear from thin air. “Alex, baby, I'm - I - _Alexander!”_

Thomas wails and Lafayette lurches forward. Their arms go to wrap around Thomas but the moment something brushes his body he squirms, scurrying out of Lafayette’s reach and backing up further.

“No!” Thomas shouts through his tears. “I know you hate me. I hate me! I wish I was dead instead of him!” Thomas’ back hits the wall of Lafayette’s apartment. “I mean, it really - really doesn't matter. I'll be with him soon enough.”

Lafayette freezes. “What do you mean?”

Thomas smiles, a painful bitter thing through the wracking sobs and shaking. “I'm gonna go kill King,” he says. “I'm going to make sure he's dead and get payback for what he did to me and for ta - taking Alex away.” A sob escapes him. “After - After he’s dead, you can k - kill me.”

Lafayette’s eyes widen. They take a sudden step back.

“I mean it,” Thomas pleads, “take your revenge. I won't fight. Please, I'm begging you, I - I -” Thomas’ eyes widen. “I never told him I loved him. I have to t - tell him. Please - I -”

Thomas can't breathe. He can't speak. His voice fails as he slumps against the wall and wails. Or tries to anyway, no sound comes out. He breathes in short, ragged gasps. He feels like he’s choking from the inside -

“Hey.”

Thomas freezes at the familiar voice. Slowly, not believing what he heard, he turns in the direction it came from. His already shattered heart stops and every thought in his brain grinds to a screeching halt.

There, in the doorway leading deeper into the apartment, stands Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Alex actually alive? Is he just a figment of Thomas' imagination conjured up by the literal shitload of trauma he's endured? Find out next week!
> 
> In all seriousness I'm sorry that this chapter is so short, my girlfriend insisted I cut it there. It does help my backlog extend (dear god I know I need it I'm drowning in schoolwork) but the second part of Thomas' breakdown comes next week. We're not done breaking him. Not by a long shot.
> 
> See you Friday!


	56. Look What You've Done Death Roulette. You Fucked Up A Perfectly Good FBI Agent. Look At Him. He's Got Anxiety.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety, Depression, PTSD... need I go on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo boy how long's it been since I needed to leave a beginning note because of torture?
> 
> But yes, our good friend Torture Dream Flashbacks has returned and it's not exceedingly graphic, but it's there. It's contained in the big blocks of italicized text, and if you want to skip it, read until "He’s out before Lafayette even leaves the room." After that, it's mostly just Thomas suffering and Laf and Alex trying their best, kinda. Alex is a little upset about Thomas leaving him but that's all the important information you need to know from after that cut point.
> 
> Take care of yourselves!

“Sup?” Alexander asks. He looks like he's in one piece, calm but for his wide eyes and clenched fists. Thomas stumbles back, away from him, not stopping until he runs into Lafayette’s bar. His hand comes up, covering his mouth.

“I'm going crazy,” he says, somehow managing to speak. “I've lost my mind.”

“Thomas -” Lafayette starts as Alexander pads, barefoot, into the living room.

“No, no, you're dead,” Thomas exclaims, trying to back up even further but only manages to press himself into the bar. “I heard it, I - I -”

“I mean, I don't think I'm dead,” Alexander says, still coming closer. Thomas shakes his head, a sob escaping him.

“No, please, don't do this to me God,” Thomas pleads. He slides sideways, walking towards the door but his eyes are glued on Alexander - _his_ Alexander - his _dead_ Alexander. “Anything but this.”

Alexander falters, his eyes shining with guarded worry. “Thomas, it's me, it's alright.”

“No! No, get away, stop saying that, it's not alright, don't lie to me,” Thomas babbles. He feels like his grip on reality is slipping out of his hands like sand. Perhaps he died in the explosions in D.C. and this is his personal Hell.

Alexander’s face sets into a determined frown and he lunges forward. Thomas isn't expecting it and can't jerk back in time. Alexander’s fingers brush his good arm and Thomas _screams_.

Alexander instantly jerks back at the same time Thomas does, both of them jumping back like the other is made of fire. Alexander’s hand is so _cold_. And that's when Thomas understands.

He lurches away, backpedaling. “I'm sorry,” he says, still crying and shaking. “I'm so sorry. Please don't haunt me like this. This is too cruel, please, I'm sorry.”

“Thomas,” Alexander says, almost frightened, and the sound of it twists the fragments Thomas’ heart.

“I can't live _seeing_ you with - without being able to have you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left and never told you I loved you, but this is too - too much,” Thomas pleads with Alexander’s ghost. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry.”

Alexander’s eyes are huge, glittering with what almost looks like _life_ deep within but Thomas knows the truth. “Thomas, please -”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas keeps repeating, sobbing. His back hits the wall and he sinks to the floor. He pulls his knees up to his chest, tucks his head between them and throws his arms over his head. He can't look at such a phantom anymore. “I’m sorry, I'll avenge you, please, don't do this to me. I'm sorry, I love you.”

Thomas continues to ramble and mumble and sob and keen from his curled up position. There's quiet footsteps, quieter French, more footsteps, and then the shutting of a distant door.

“Thomas?” Lafayette’s voice is quiet, gentle, like one might use to speak to a wounded animal. It comes from just in front of Thomas and Thomas tries to flinch away. “Thomas, it's just us, okay? No Alexander.”

“I know, because he's dead,” Thomas mutters, sniffling. His tears are starting to dry, perhaps because he simply doesn't physically have any left. Everything inside him feels like it's been ripped to pieces, but at least something about his body is finally failing. Hopefully his heart is next to stop on him.

Lafayette takes a deep breath. “Is there anything I can get you? When's the last time you ate or drank anything?”

Something about the calm, logical question manages to pierce through the storm in Thomas’ head. He takes a breath, one that actually feels like it fills his lungs. “Yesterday, dinner,” he says. He hears Lafayette shift in place.

“Okay, why don't I make you something, hm? In the meantime, you should probably shower.”

Thomas hesitates, then slowly picks up his head. His face and head throb. Lafayette is looking at him with a calm, caring patience Thomas has only ever seen from his mother.

“Doesn't a shower sound nice? Get all of that stuff off of you?” Lafayette asks. Slowly, wincing at the pain in his skull, Thomas nods. Lafayette smiles gently at him. “Come on then, let's get you cleaned up.”

It seems like Lafayette’s learned - they don’t dare even reach for Thomas as Thomas slowly uncurls himself and stands. He tucks his bad arm into his stomach, the pain from it multiplied from the pounding in his head.

Lafayette croons gentle words of support as they walk with Thomas a careful but deliberate arms length away. They lead Thomas through the door and down a hall. As they pass one of the two doors, Thomas swears he sees it swing open just the smallest bit wider. But Lafayette is already opening the door at the end of the hall and motioning Thomas inside.

“Leave your clothes on the counter,’ Lafayette instructs softly. “I’ll see what I can do about cleaning them and get you something to wear.” Thomas nods mutely, arms wrapped tightly around himself. Lafayette takes the initiative to turn the shower on, pull the curtain back and point out the shampoo and soap.

“Call if you need anything,” Lafayette says. With one last cautious look, Lafayette picks up the razor from his counter and leaves Thomas alone in the bathroom. For a long second, Thomas just stands there, listening to the water run and feeling the air heat up around him,

Then, with trembling hands, he reaches for the hem of his shirt. He goes to pull it off, but stops, feeling the stiff fabric under his fingers. It almost feels like his clothing cracks as he peels it from his body. It hurts, the fabric having dried to his skin - especially on his injured arm.

But eventually, they’re in a heap on the floor and Thomas just gently picks them up and puts them on the counter. Folding them is worthless, and he just climbs into Lafayette’s shower. He stands back from the water for a moment, then holds out his hands to feel it. It’s a nice, warm temperature, so Thomas pulls the curtain and shut and steps under the stream.

His mind stays blessedly blank for a moment. He just feels the water cascade around his body, his eyes shut. He lets out a breath, and opens his eyes to reach for the shampoo -

The water is pink where it runs off his body and collects around the drain. Thomas watches it run with blood. Slowly, he reaches up into his hair and when he pulls his hands away, they’re red. The water washes it away a moment later, but Thomas just stares at his blood-stained hands.

The names and faces come back in flashes. Philip, terrified and helpless. Ben, gone before anyone knew. Washington and his wife, holding each other in death. Mulligan, his head blown open. Laurens, who he never even saw.

Too many faces, too many names.

Too much blood.

Thomas discovers he has tears left to cry after all.

\--------------

Lafayette finally pulls him from the shower long after the water’s gone cold. He’s shivering, sat down on the cold tile, curled into a small ball when Lafayette finally dares pull the shower curtain back with a tentative call of his name. Lafayette carefully helps him to stand, wraps a towel around him and helps him pull on a set of clothes. Thomas feels like everything on the outside of him isn’t real. His head swirls, a storm of half-formed thoughts, dead faces and self-hatred.

Lafayette leads him carefully to the next room over and gently ushers Thomas inside an opulent bedroom. It’s elegant, hints of old French style, nothing like the party scene of the living room. Thomas would appreciate it in almost any other circumstance. As it is, he barely registers what’s happening as Lafayette puts him in the four-poster bed.

“I made soup,” Lafayette says. “You need something in your stomach.” Thomas doesn’t speak as Lafayette carefully picks up a bowl and spoon and offers Thomas some. Thomas lets Lafayette feed him, and when the first spoonful of the thick broth hits his tongue he finds his voice again.

“Tastes almost like my mom’s,” Thomas says. Lafayette smiles.

“Our mothers must have similar tastes then,” they say. Thomas lets out a breath, and quietly reaches out for the bowl to feed himself. Lafayette willingly gives it to him, and Thomas takes slow spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup. It’s thicker than his mom’s, but it still reminds him of home.

The thought of home threatens to make Thomas tear up again.

“What’s wrong?” Lafayette asks. Thomas frowns into his soup.

“I can’t go home,” he says. “Not ever again.”

Lafayette just frowns. “Eat what you can,” they say. “Then sleep.”

Thomas nods, and manages to put three more spoonfuls into his stomach before it becomes too much. When offered the bowl back, Lafayette dutifully takes it and sets it back on the nightstand. “I’ll be in the other room if you need me, just call.”

Lafayette goes to stand, goes to leave, but Thomas stops them with a quiet “Wait.” Lafayette turns, their eyes sparkling with worry. “Was…” Thomas hesitates, drawing a breath. “Was that Alexander I saw… was he real?”

He expects Lafayette to shake their head. He expects Lafayette to speak more condolences, to try and break reality as gently as they can to Thomas. So when Lafayette hesitates, glances at the door, then turns back, Thomas braces himself for the ‘no.’

“Yes,” Lafayette says. Thomas’ eyes widen. His hands clutch at the comforter on top of him.

“He’s actually… he’s actually _alive_?” The word slips out between Thomas’ lips with such reverence. He can’t put a word to the swirl of feelings in his chest at the thought. There’s hope, most assuredly, but fear too. No, _terror_ is the better word. Hope and terror and joy and despair held just at bay.

“Yes,” Lafayette repeats, nodding their head slightly. Thomas looks down at his lap, tracing the way the fabric bunches and folds over his legs.

“How?” He asks, his voice so quiet and fragile. He feels like a porcelain doll, ready to shatter at the wrong gust of wind. “I heard it.”

Lafayette lets out a quiet sigh, crosses the short distance back to the bed, and perches themself on the edge of it. “Alexander has told me that King still has his phone, and before you and Maria rescued him, King made a few recordings to send to Washington. Then you got involved and King never sent them. That's likely what you heard.”

“Recordings?” Thomas asks. Lafayette nods. But Thomas frowns. “King said Knox turned him over, Washington didn't know where he was…”

Lafayette takes another breath. “When Madison came back to the Frenchman and said that you'd gone home, Alex stormed out and didn't come back.”

“Didn't have a choice,” Thomas mutters. Lafayette frowns, sympathy dancing their eyes.

“The way Madison told it made it sound like you did,” Lafayette explains. “He said you voluntarily took yourself off assignment. Said that you thought you were in too deep and in too much danger.” Lafayette’s eyes peer into Thomas as they speak, watching his reaction carefully. “Said that you had a wife and kids you wanted to protect.”

Thomas looks up at Lafayette, shock playing out on his face. “A... wife and kids?” He asks, shaking his head. “No, I…. I'm not… I love Alexander.”

Lafayette just nods. “At the time we didn't know,” they say. “Alex stormed off and no one could find him and I came home to get something and he was crying over my bar and drinking. He’s been here ever since.”

Thomas drops his gaze back down to the bed. “I’m sorry,” he mutters again. “I didn’t want to go.”

“I’m sure,” Lafayette responds. “Come now, sleep. Things will be better when you wake.”

Thomas looks up at Lafayette, the intent to argue just on his tongue. But he’s exhausted, and the heavy meal sits in his stomach with a fatiguing pull on his body. So instead, he just nods and squirms down until he’s covered by the blankets.

He’s out before Lafayette even leaves the room.

\--------------

_The scene is familiar; that dark warehouse, tied to a wooden chair as Sammy grins up at him. Except now, it’s a child’s face on a man’s body, it’s little seven-year-old Sammy securing Thomas’ wrists to the chair._

_He knows what’s coming, Thomas braces himself for Sammy to pull out the wires and pliers. But instead, he stands and steps aside. In a horrid moment, Thomas realizes tonight’s torture isn’t his. It’s Alexander’s to bear._

_For his Alexander is secured to a similar chair ten feet away, King and Reynolds hovering over his shoulders. Thomas has no control over his body - can’t look away, can’t close his eyes - as Reynolds reaches down, grabs Alexander’s chin and forces his mouth open._

_Reynolds doesn’t look away from Thomas but his movements are precise, exact as he forces Alexander’s tongue out from between his teeth. Sammy crosses the small distance between the two chairs, and suddenly there’s a knife in his hand._

_Thomas watches as Sammy plunges the knife into Alexander’s mouth, can’t do anything to stop him as he carefully carves out Alexander’s tongue. Alexander screams around the fingers and blade in his mouth. With a flick of his wrist, Sammy sends the mound of flesh flying to the floor at Thomas’ feet._

_Sammy steps aside so Thomas can see the cascade of blood the pours from between Alexander’s lips. Alexander looks at him, head held in place by Reynold’s large hands. A wet, gurgling sound comes out of Alexander, his throat working to speak._

_“Alexander, baby, it’s okay,” Thomas says, or tries to say anyway. There’s suddenly a gag in his mouth and all that comes out are muffled sounds. Reynolds lets go of Alexander’s jaw and suddenly Thomas can read his lips._

_The sounds Alexander is attempting to form make up Thomas’ name. The awful, guttural noises Alexander produces are supposed to be his_ name. _Thomas feels tears well in his eyes as he realizes that Alexander is trying to call for him._

_Sammy wipes the blade on Alexander’s pants and when he looks up at Thomas, there’s blood dripping from his eye. Then he turns and carves a quick line across Alexander’s chest, a diagonal that carves open his shirt and causes blood to seep down his body._

_Alexander cries out, spitting blood from his mouth onto himself and the floor. In response, Sammy buries the knife into one of Alexander’s hands. Thomas wants to look away, wants to leap out of the chair and go rescue him._

_He strains against the restraints, pulling at the ropes at dig into his skin. Rope splinters dig into his wrists and ankles, the fabric in his mouth feels suffocating._

_Reynolds holds Alexander’s body still as Sammy works, King watching them and Thomas with laughter in his eyes. When he sees Thomas fighting to get out of his bonds, he giggles. Almost as if that’s the cue, both Reynolds and Sammy let go of Alexander at simultaneously and step away._

_For a second, Alexander goes limp, blood staining every inch of his body and clothes. A long heartbeat later and Alexander manages to pick up his head to look at Thomas. He opens his mouth - bloodied and ruined as it is - and makes the same pattern of hurt, pitiful, pleading sounds that Thomas now recognizes as the closest thing Alexander can get to his name._

_And then King shoots him in the back of the head._

_Alexander’s skull explodes, raining blood and brain and skull and viscera through the air. Some of it manages to fly so far as to hit Thomas as he lets out a muffled sob. The tears already flowing down his face mix with droplets of Alexander’s blood._

_Reynolds reappears and cuts the bonds from around Alexander’s body. He lifts the limp, broken form from the chair as Thomas tries to scream for Alexander. Sammy and King look at him with mirthful looks in their eyes. The blood dripping from the corner of Sammy’s eye has turned into a thin stream running down his face._

_When Reynolds returns, he’s dragging in another Alexander. This one is alive and fighting, cursing Reynolds as he’s forced into the chair already stained with his own blood. Alexander catches sight of Thomas and his eyes widen._

_“Thomas!” He says. “They haven’t hurt you, have they?” Alexander looks so scared for Thomas, but all Thomas can do is cry._

_Reynolds and ties Alexander to the chair and puts his hands on Alexander’s jaw. Once again, he forces his fingers inside Alexander’s mouth and pulls out his tongue for Sammy to take a knife to._

_Thomas sobs as a second bloodied tongue joins the one on the floor by his feet. Thomas pulls at his ropes again, knowing it will be futile but trying anyway. Alexander screams and still Thomas can’t look away. This new Alexander’s blood mixes with the old one’s._

_And Thomas watches it happen again. Sammy carves Alexander up before King ends it with a single gunshot. Reynolds takes the body out, and brings in a living Alexander._

_The fourth time, when King shoots Alexander, Thomas just collapses into his chair. There is literally nothing he can do to stop this hell. Sammy grins at him - the blood now a full waterfall down the side of his face and Thomas thinks he’s missing part of a finger now._

_And Alexander keeps calling for him, keeps pleading for Thomas to come save him but Thomas can’t move. He can’t even speak and offer condolences. Splatters of Alexander’s blood pile up on his body and now there are seven tongues on the floor._

_Sammy’s face is a bloodied mess, his eye is a dark socket and Thomas can see the bones poking out of his hand. Reynolds pulls the eighth Alexander into the room._

\--------------

The first shout from their bedroom startles Lafayette, knocking them out of the flow of the building argument they had been having. The shout is followed by the sound of pleading cries, muffled by a door and some distance.

Alexander - halfway through his sentence - freezes, looking in the direction of the hallway. For a moment, they both stand there in silence, trying to figure out what to do. Then Lafayette lurches into action at the sound of the second shout. They cross the living room, walk down the hallway and gently crack open the door to their bedroom.

Mid-morning sun seeps in through the cracks of the window blind, just enough light to illuminate Thomas. He’s still asleep, but he’s tangled in the blankets, sweating as he clutches at the pillow like a lifeline. Now that the door is open, Lafayette can hear what he’s saying.

“Please,” he pleads, pained even in sleep, “Alex.” Lafayette takes a deep breath and enters the room. They cross to the bedside and sit down next to Thomas’ tense form. They gently reach out, but the moment their hands make contact, Thomas flails.

\--------------

_Sammy grabs Thomas by the arms, holding him steady as Reynolds takes over. There’s a large cut in Alexander’s stomach and Reynolds willingly sticks his hand into it. Alexander screams, squirms to get away but he’s trapped._

_Sammy’s hold on him is tight, pinning him to the chair. “Oh, it’s alright,” Sammy whispers, laughter in his voice. “Thomas, dear, you’re alright.”_

_Thomas feels the tears run down his face as he lurches forward, and Sammy’s hands thankfully disappear._

\--------------

Lafayette pulls their hands away almost instantly, even as Thomas still thrashes. They don’t know what to do. Nightmares aren’t their forte. They know how to clean someone up, but not this. More and more they’re finding their shortcomings recently.

“Let me,” Alexander says, startling Lafayette. They hadn’t known that Alexander had followed them. But now the man is crossing the floor and gently shoving Lafayette off the side of the bed.

“Alexander,” Lafayette breathes, but Alexander is already making low shushing sounds.

“Thomas, love, I’m here, I’m okay,” he mutters. He skips past trying to hold Thomas and just goes to run his hands through Thomas’ hair. The still-sleeping Thomas tenses at the touch, making a keening noise as Alexander speaks. “I’ve got you. It’s over, it’s okay.”

To Lafayette’s astonishment, Thomas actually starts to relax. The agonized expression on his face starts to calm. Alexander keeps doing what he’s doing and soon Thomas has completely stopped fighting or making sounds.

“Don’t tell him I touched his hair,” Alexander says, almost joking as he pulls his hands away. He waits a heartbeat to see if the nightmare will return, but Thomas seems peaceful.

“He’s very hurt,” Lafayette says. Alexander turns to him, that low gleam in his eyes that Lafayette knows means that he’s thinking really hard.

“I’m still mad,” he says. Lafayette has to stifle a sigh.

“He says he didn’t want to go, and I believe him.”

Alexander purses his lips. “He still left.”

“You’re being completely -”

Lafayette cuts off quickly as Thomas shifts, turning over in his sleep. Alexander tenses a moment, but Thomas stays asleep and calm.

“He screamed when I touched him,” Alexander mutters. Lafayette flinches at the memory. Alexander slowly stands and steps away from Thomas’ side. When he reaches Lafayette, he turns to glance at Thomas one last time before looking up at them. “What am I supposed to do?”

Lafayette just purses their lips. “I don’t know.”

\--------------

Thomas dreams undisturbed of the fair. Of the way the strings of lights shone on Alexander’s face and the way he laughed. He dreams of the way Alexander loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, Thomas is a Fucked Up Boy but Alex is alive and safe and still has his tongue. King is just an evil fuck. I don't know if it was just the power of denial that kept y'all from believing Alex dead but some of you certainly saw through my bullshit. Although the amount of you jumping on the "alex is a ghost" train last week was surprising. I guess I hinted at the possibility but still.
> 
> See you Friday!


	57. Plot Don't Stop Even If The Main Character Is A Traumatized Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world keeps moving even if all Thomas wants to do is sit in a corner and not talk

When Thomas wakes, the clock on the nightstand tells him it’s 3 in the afternoon. The last tendrils of the first completely good dream slip away from him as he sits up in bed. For a second, he’s confused as to where he is or how he got there.

And then it all comes crashing back in one horrible moment and Thomas’ mind struggles to work under the onslaught. After a terrible minute of blood and dead faces flashing in his head, Thomas’ mind finally shuts it out and puts all of that in a nice, neat little corner labeled ‘to be dealt with later.’

He looks around, and Lafayette’s bedroom is actually pretty nice. The colors are too heavy for him, but the structure of the room and furniture is nice. The French influence is prevalent but not overbearing. The curtains are a solid dark, likely made to keep out street lights, and help bring the room together.

Thomas hasn’t thought this deeply about room design since that interior design class in college.

Distantly, Thomas can hear the muffled sounds of an argument. Two voices on the verge of shouting at eachother and Thomas just wants to bury himself back into the sheets again. He wants to be asleep and in a happier time and away from the corner of his mind he doesn’t want to go poking through.

But that’s Alexander’s voice out there, as well as Lafayette’s and the curiosity gets the better of Thomas. So he quietly slides out of bed - the tile floor is cold beneath his bare feet - and pads over to the door. He cracks it open just enough that he can make out the words being said.

“- for the last time,” that’s Lafayette’s voice there, “he’s in _my_ home -”

“Well what the hell do you expect me to do?!” Alexander snaps back. “I can’t believe you brought him back here, _knowing_ -”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I found him coated in Pip’s _blood._ I thought he was _dead_ from the way he was just staring at the sidewalk. I couldn’t _leave_ him.”

“Maybe you should have,” Alexander says. Thomas flinches, his fists clenching by his sides.

“Alexander -”

“He fucking left!” Alexander says. “He broke every promise he made to me -”

“He didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course he fucking did! Don’t you think, if he managed to get out of custody in Virginia and get back here, he could have gotten out _days_ ago?”

Thomas takes a deep breath, and steps back from the door. Alexander doesn’t want him here. Alexander is alive but hates him.

“Alexander, you’re being far from -”

“We don’t even know if he’s still lying!”

Thomas crosses to the window in Lafayette’s room, but when he peeks through the curtain, he sees that the fire escape isn’t on this side of the building. It’s a multi-floor drop to the ground, and while Thomas wouldn’t mind it the thought of Alexander finding him is enough to dissuade him from jumping. For the moment at least.

So he comes away from the window and peers into the hallway, but there are no windows. The living room it is.

“Do you really think he’d leave behind _kids_ to come back for you.”

“What if he’s playing us? What if this ‘arrest story’ is fake -”

“You cannot honestly believe that -”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore!”

Thomas puts a foot down into the hall, grateful when it doesn’t make a sound. He crosses the hall to look out into the hall. Lafayette and Alex are profile to him, standing by the couch and bar area. They’re standing in front of the window, but if Thomas is quick and quiet, he could make it to the front door without either of them noticing.

“I would think his state this morning would give his story some credence.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alexander growls. “But…”

Thomas slips out into the living room, sticking to the wall as he makes his way to the door. He’ll just slip out and never bother Alexander or Lafayette ever again. Maybe he’ll go back to Talmadge and the Sons, maybe they’ll be kinder to him than King would be. Maybe he’ll ask Burr to borrow his gun.

“But?” Lafayette prompts.

“But what the hell am I supposed to do if he - hey!”

Thomas - his arm outstretched for the doorknob - jumps when Alexander’s words turn into a sudden shout. He glances over to find Alexander’s burning eyes looking right at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Alexander asks. Thomas flinches, hand still suspended in mid air.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas stutters out. “I’m just going to be… going…” he trails, his throat dry. Alexander’s eye twitches and Thomas rushes to speak. “I know when I’m not… not wanted… and I’m sorry…”

Lafayette’s face flashes with worry, but it’s Alexander that speaks first. “You’re not leaving,” he snaps. Thomas draws in on himself.

“No, it’s alright -”

“Thomas Jefferson get back here and sit your ass down!” Alexander yells. Thomas’ heart skips a beat, his eyes widen and everything inside him just… shuts down. His throat closes up and his arm falls back to his side. “You are _not_ leaving.”

Thomas just nods mutely, words having fled from his mind, and he slowly picks his way over towards Alexander and Lafayette. Alexander points at the couch. Thomas sits, stiff as a board and wanting to just vanish into the couch cushions.

But Alexander is _right there_ and - supposedly - alive and Thomas also wants to reach out and take the man into his arms. He wants to pick him up and take him somewhere Alexander can never get hurt. But Alexander hates him now, as evidenced by the fire burning in his eyes as he looks down at Thomas. So he doesn’t even dare reach out and instead just hopes that God or whomever strikes him down here.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing by leaving?” Alexander asks, fire in his eyes. “You _leaving_ is the fucking problem you think it’s best you do it again?!”

“Alexander -” Lafayette starts, eyeing Thomas worriedly. But Alexander shakes his head.

“No, he’s got some things to answer for.” Alexander looms over Thomas. The love of his life is alive and angry and Thomas clutches onto the edge of Lafayette’s couch. It’s his fault. Everyone is dead and Alexander hates him and it’s his fault. Alexander’s hands are balled into fists, his body inches away from Thomas’ legs and he’s scared they’re going to touch again.

He’s not even processing what Alexander’s saying at this point. It’s all anger and hurt and spit and Thomas curls in on himself. He sits there, on the verge of tears, just listening to the awful cadence of Alexander’s rage and it’s all his fault and he’s better off dead and _it’s all his fault -_

“Alexander!” Lafayette finally snaps, shoving Alexander harshly away from Thomas. Alexander stumbles to the side, looking up at Lafayette in shock. “You need to stop! Right now!”

“Lafayette -”

“No, I am tired of you _self-pitying_ bullshit. You’ve got a right to be angry, but _mon dieu,_ look at him!” Lafayette points at Thomas, who is watching the exchange with wide eyes. “That is _not_ the Thomas you and I know. Thomas is not okay. He is far from fucking okay.”

“I’m not okay either!” Alexander counters, and Lafayette’s eyes blow wide.

“Yes! Sure! You’re hurting! But dear god Alexander. Get your head out of your _ass_. Would the Thomas you know sit there and let you yell at him?” Alexander glances over at Thomas, but Lafayette keeps talking. “Can’t you see he’s literally broken?”

“I -”

“Yes, it hurt when he left. Yes, you had to live through maybe never seeing him again, but he _thought you were dead,_ Alexander. He thought he _heard you die_ and then you came back. Think about that for five minutes and realize that he is in need of _so much help_.”

Alexander looks between Thomas and Lafayette, fists curled at his sides. “He let people die.”

“He had to _watch_ people die!” Lafayette snaps. “Washington and Philip are dead, and you’re hurting, fine! But Thomas literally had them in his arms when they died. He was trying to _help_ and they _died_ in front of him.”

Alexander hesitates, drawing back from both Thomas and Lafayette and that little movement is the last straw. “ _Alexander Hamilton!”_ Lafayette is yelling now, all hints of patience gone from them. “You _will_ be there for Thomas because he needs you and you still have the chance to have him and I _can’t_ have John so you better get your shit straight and stop acting like this before you lose him or so help me god -”

In the moment Lafayette takes a step towards Alexander, Thomas wakes up. He snaps out of whatever terror locked him in place on the couch and in a blink he’s standing between Lafayette and Alex. His nerves are on fire and his muscles scream with the desire to fight, to _protect_. He’s ready to go down swinging before Alexander gets hurt again.

Lafayette quickly jumps back, eyes wide as they take in Thomas’ aggressive stance. Thomas can hear Alexander gasp faintly from behind him. For a second, they all stand in tense silence, Thomas’ hands balled into fists at his sides, chest puffed out and daring Lafayette to make a move on Alexander.

And then Thomas looks at Lafayette, sees the way they carefully retreat another step back, and suddenly remembers that Lafayette is Alexander’s _friend_. They’d never lay a finger on Alexander, not in a thousand years.

Shame and guilt flood Thomas’ body as he deflates. The fire inside him douses and his shoulders drop. “Thomas?” Alexander asks, almost hesitantly. Thomas winces, suddenly feeling so small.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I… I thought for a second…” he looks over at Lafayette. “You’d never hurt him, I’m sorry.”

Lafayette’s eyes glitter in understanding. Thomas shuffles away, turning back to Alexander. “I know you’re mad at me,” Thomas says, his throat starting to tighten. Words start to fail him as he stutters and stumbles over every syllable. “I know you hate me. It’s okay. I’m gonna go and leave you alone. You don’t ever have to see me again.”

Alexander’s eyes widen as Thomas turns away again, determined to make it out of the door this time. Then a cold hand closes around his wrist and Thomas yanks his hand away so hard he ends up stumbling back under the force of his own movement. Alexander blinks up at him in hurt shock as Thomas holds his arm where Alexander had touched it. Alexander’s hand hangs in the air between them.

Thomas swallows, holding his wrist close to his chest. “I’m gonna -”

“No,” Alexander interrupts, even as Thomas finches. “You need to stay.”

“I really should -”

“I don’t hate you.” Alexander looks up at Thomas. “And I’m asking you to stay.”

And how can Thomas deny Alexander anything? Slowly, he nods, one hand still curled around his wrist tightly. He hears Lafayette come up behind him, but they don’t make the same mistake Alexander did. Keeping themselves a respectable distance from Thomas, motion back towards the couch.

“I was going to order dinner,” Lafayette says. “Chinese.”

Thomas nods again, following Lafayette’s implicit request to sit himself back down where he had been. Lafayette shoots Alexander a glance, and the shorter man shuffles in place before taking a seat at Lafayette’s bar.

Alexander is uncharacteristically silent, just watching Thomas with wide eyes. Thomas can’t meet his gaze, stealing little glimpses each time a little voice in his head doubt that he’s still there. But staring at Lafayette’s bar, Thomas can’t help but be reminded of the first time they met. The first time Thomas had laid hands on Alexander had been to hurt. He pulls in on himself as he remembers breaking Alexander’s nose over a barstool.

Thomas had hurt Alexander himself, and he continues to do so. He curls his hands into fists as he slowly rises from the couch. Alexander starts forward, coming off his seat, but Thomas shakes his head.

“I just wanna nap,” Thomas lies, pointing lamely to the hallway.

“Dinner’s not far off,” Alexander says, wavering on his feet like he wants to cross the room to Thomas.

“I’m not hungry.”

Alexander hesitates, but draws back with a nod. Thomas frowns, wanting to reach out and take Alexander into his arms again - but no. He can’t. A part of his mind riots at the thought. Alexander hates him, he can’t.

So instead he just numbly made his way back to Lafayette’s room. It’s still dark, the sunlight just trailing in through the curtains, casting light shadows across the vast space. Thomas can see where he hadn’t made the bed, and thinks about crawling back into place before he remembers that this _isn’t_ his bed. This isn’t his room. Lafayette has given up his bed to Thomas. Thomas who doesn’t deserve anything but to be kicked out onto the street.

He feels like a burden even just standing in the middle of the room, taking up space that doesn’t belong to him. So he does what he can by pressing himself into the far corner of the room, sat against the ground in the tiniest ball he can manage.

With his back planted against the wall, Thomas can see the door clearly, and he’s out of sight of the window. The simple confirmation that he can see both entrances helps to calm him somewhat. The solid wall at his back keeps him from melting down - he can’t see Alexander now so there’s a chance he’s already gone.

He tries to push the thought out of his head - Alexander is _fine,_ Lafayette wouldn’t let anything happen. But even still then, Thomas keeps his ears pricked. Any sound of danger, a scuffle, _anything_ , and Thomas will rush out to Alexander’s defense.

So he sits in silence, body tense as he keeps his eyes glued on the door. He decides he’s going to wait. _Something’s_ going to go horribly, horribly wrong and he’s just waiting for it. It’s going to happen, he knows. He has no idea how long he waits, he just knows he’s waiting for it all to fall apart.

He can hear someone open the front door and shut it again, and he waits. Thomas counts to one hundred, the quiet not helping him to calm down. There’s no outward signs of danger, but there’s no voices, no way for Thomas to tell if someone left or came in or simply looked outside the door for a moment.

When he reaches the end of his count, Thomas can’t take it anymore. He’s on his feet and out into the living room before he really processes what he’s doing. The moment he bursts out into the larger room, he suddenly understands what happened.

Alexander and Lafayette are picking silently at food from Styrofoam containers, the smell of cheap Chinese takeout filling the apartment. Thomas lets out a sigh, looking up to find both sets of eyes on him.

“Did you want some?” Lafayette asks, holding out a cardboard container of rice. Thomas looks at it, his stomach grumbles at the sight and scent of it all. He ate early this morning, but he doesn’t know what time it is now. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“No, I just… heard the door open… didn’t know…” Thomas trails. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. Alexander drops his eyes to his food, hunched over a take-out container. Lafayette places their food and fork back onto the table and looks up at Thomas, hands splayed out on their thighs where Thomas can see.

“It was just the food delivery man,” Lafayette says. “He didn’t see Alexander or you, all that happened was a simple payment transaction and he handed over the food.”

Thomas glances at the take-out, and it all _looks_ fine. He swallows, throat dry, and nods. “Okay. Enjoy your meal,” Thomas says, taking a slow step back. Lafayette glances at the open boxes of food, pauses, and then slides one towards Thomas.

“You should eat,” Lafayette says. Thomas hesitates, and Lafayette clears their throat. “You need to eat,” they say more insistently. Still Thomas stands in place, wavering. That’s _Lafayette’s_ food. They bought it. Thomas isn’t deserving of such things as food, let alone anyone else’s, and far be it from him to take Lafayette’s of all people -

“Thomas, please eat,” Alexander mutters. “You’re worthy of food.”

Thomas starts, not having realized he’d spoken aloud. But who is he to deny Alexander? So, silently, he crosses the room and grabs the first thing Lafayette hands him. He’s but an arm’s length from Alexander as the shorter man continues to pick at lo mien with a pair of chopsticks, not looking up at Thomas once.

The moment a small white carton and fork is in Thomas’ hands he retreats again. Before Lafayette or Alexander can speak about more than a half-order of rice and something to drink, Thomas flees back into Lafayette’s bedroom.

He eats alone, back in his little corner, forcing every bite he can. Alexander asked him to eat, so he has to. He manages to force himself to finish the small container, barely even tasting anything, so focused on just getting it all down. The sun sets outside the window and Thomas doesn’t move.

The door creaks open and Lafayette pokes their head in. They take one long, saddened look at Thomas and says: “The bed’s yours if you want it.” Thomas doesn’t respond and they shut the door again.

It’s late - the clock at Lafayette’s bedside blinks just past midnight - when Thomas hears the floor creak outside the door. Someone, whoever’s moving, hesitates outside his door but carries on farther down the hall. _One of them going to the bathroom,_ Thomas thinks. _Probably_. He counts the time until the footsteps return. It doesn’t take all that long, but they sound heavier now, like whoever it is is carrying something.

Then he hears the sound of metal sliding, a gentle clinking noise, and then a quiet curse. Thomas frowns, arms tightening around his knees as he waits for the person to pass. It’s strategically better to be behind someone if you need to attack, so Thomas waits until the footsteps are an acceptable distance before he silently hauls himself to his feet and crosses Lafayette’s bedroom.

He pushes the door open and peers out into the hallway. He just catches the glimpse of a shadowed figure walking into the living room, and Thomas hesitantly follows. Before he reaches the open doorway, a low light flicks on in the living room, like someone is using a flashlight or a small desk lamp.

Thomas reaches the hallway opening and peers out. There, cast in the sharp light cast by his phone flashlight placed upwards on the table, is Alexander. He digs through a small cardboard box and starts to pull things out of it. Smaller boxes, ammo clips, a pistol -

Thomas’ heart stops when he sees the dark metal glint in Alexander’s light. _What is he doing?_ Thomas thinks as Alexander fiddles with the gun, examining it in the low light. Thomas wants to shrink back, to get behind cover but he forces himself to take a step out into the living room.

Alexander looks up at him sharply, the gun in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other. His eyes widen, he glances at the weapon in his hands and then back up at Thomas. “Hey,” he whispers. “I… I couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d… clean Laf’s stash for them.”

Thomas blinks, looking down at the piles of boxed ammunition and clips. “Gonna clean the bullets too?” He asks, and Alexander’s eyes shine.

“What if I am?” Alexander teases, almost mockingly. Thomas’ heart sinks, his whole posture shrinks.

“That’s fine,” Thomas says. “Sorry.” The glitter in Alexander’s eyes dies and he looks back down at the weapons almost sadly.

“Just go back to bed -”

Before Alexander finishes his sentence, the lights flick on. Both Thomas and Alexander turn to the open doorway to find Lafayette, half dressed, standing there with their hand on the lightswitch. Alexander’s grip on his weapon tightens as Lafayette stares him down.

“Where did you get that?” Lafayette asks. Alexander scoffs.

“Come on man, I know where your stash is,” he says, turning back to the box.

“What are you planning on doing?”

“I’m just cleaning,” Alexander says. Lafayette huffs.

“Alexander.”

“I’m going to do some cleaning!” Alexander snaps. Thomas flinches, and Lafayette glances at him briefly.

“What kind of cleaning?” Lafayette presses. Alexander hunches over the box, digging out another pistol and examining that one.

“I’m going to clean these and then go take care of some scum,” Alexander growls. Thomas’ eyes widen as Lafayette takes a step forward.

“I thought we agreed, it’s too dangerous for any of us to leave this apartment.”

“That was before you told me Eaker got away,” Alexander says. Thomas inhales sharply, eyes widening. Lafayette’s brows furrow.

“Alexander, you can’t -”

“I can and I will!” Alexander interrupts. He drops the cleaning rag into the box and starts to load a clip. “Philip was my son!”

“I know you loved him like a son but -”

“But what?!” Alexander whirls. “But _what_. The boss and my son are both dead and Eaker and Tallmadge are alive and Philip didn’t deserve to _die!_ ”

“You can’t risk anything like this,” Lafayette says. “The entire city’s looking for you, going after Eaker is -”

“I have to Laf!” Alexander insists. “You can’t tell me otherwise, I _have_ to kill that son of a bitch.” The desperation and determination are plain on Alexander’s face, and Lafayette’s shoulders drop.

“You’ll take more than one ammo clip,” Lafayette says. Alexander nods.

“Obviously.”

“And you’ll take my second phone.”

“Fine,” Alexander hisses. “Anything else _mom_?”

“I go with you,” Thomas cuts in. Both heads snap towards him as he takes a step forward. “I’m going with you,” he repeats. Alexander blinks, and looks towards Lafayette, an odd hesitance flicking across his face.

“Thomas, no,” Lafayette starts, but Thomas is already shaking his head.

“I have to go,” Thomas says. His stomach churns at the sight of the gun in Alexander’s hand, but he steels himself, looking at Lafayette the best he can.

“It’s bad enough Alexander is leaving the apartment, you’re on the wanted list -”

“I’m _going_ ,” Thomas says. “I watched Philip get shot and I thought Alexander died once and I’m _not_ letting him out of my sight ever again.”

“You can’t even look at me directly,” Alexander says. Thomas takes a breath, grits his jaw and shifts his gaze in Alexander’s direction. He can’t force himself to look Alexander in the eye, to meet that gaze full of fire but he can keep his eyes just unfocused enough to look at his lovely Alexander.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lafayette breaks in. “Thomas is not leaving here. You’ll get yourselves killed or worse and Thomas is in no state to be out.”

“I’m not letting Alexander go alone,” Thomas mutters, not letting his eyes settle, flicking about Alexander’s body and legs. Lafayette makes a noise akin to a growl and turns back on Alexander.

“Alexander, think about this. You are being _hunted_ and your plan is to go marching into Hell’s Kitchen - King’s home territory - hoping to find the right apartment while dragging along an emotional, traumatic mess -”

“Thomas isn’t coming -” Alexander tries to cut in, but Lafayette just runs over his words.

“- don’t you understand that this is literally _suicide?!_ You are walking out to your death after all that’s happened. So many people have died and sacrificed for you and you are throwing it all away on a pipe dream of killing one man! And not even King. A Redcoat foot soldier! If you even attempt this, you are more idiotic than I ever gave you credit for.”

Lafayette is left breathing hard from their tirade, but Alexander just looks at them with that same fire and determination. There’s a pause as Lafayette searches his face for any sign, any signal that Alexander is buckling.

“You’re still going to do it,” Lafayette says, more a statement than a question. Alexander nods, and Lafayette lets out a sigh. They turn to Thomas. “And you’re still going to follow him?”

“Of course,” Thomas says. Lafayette frowns.

“Is there anything that could get you to stay?” They ask Thomas, almost pleading. Thomas hesitates, then looks up at Alexander. Lafayette follows his gaze and lets out another sigh. “Alexander, please. I’m asking you.”

“I gotta,” Alexander says. Thomas can feel his eyes on Alexander, still unable to meet his eyes. He can see the questions burning in Alexander in the way his expression contorts slightly and the flicker in his eyes. “Thomas -”

“If you’re going I’m going,” Thomas says, leaving no room for argument. Lafayette sighs heavily.

“Keep it on,” they say, pulling a phone from their pocket and handing it to Alexander. “I’m going to track you, don’t you argue with me,” they say before Alexander can even open his mouth. “I want you back here by noon at the latest.”

“It won’t take nearly that long,” Alexander says. “We’ll be back by breakfast.”

Thomas’ heart skips a beat on the word ‘we.’ He takes a hesitant step forward, coming closer to Alexander when the man doesn’t protest. Thomas doesn’t dare touch Alexander, just watches as the man sighs and reaches into the box.

“Here,” Alexander says, holding out a pistol in Thomas’ direction. Thomas’s heart pounds in his ears as he slowly reaches up and takes it, careful not to touch Alexander’s hand. The cold metal bites into his skin and Thomas wants nothing but to throw it as far away from him as he can. But he holds onto it, carefully clutching it as Alexander readies clips of ammo.

Lafayette watches silently, eyes glittering in the light as Alexander readies himself. Alexander stuffs his gun into his pants, as well as some extra ammo and Lafayette’s phone disappears into his pocket.

When Alexander turns back to Thomas, his jaw is set in a hard line. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s go kill a motherfucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revenge time motherfuckers. This will go spectacularly well I'm sure.
> 
> See you Friday


	58. For Everyone Who Was Asking Where Burr, Theodosia and Teddy Are, Here You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the glorious Burr family you could want.
> 
> (Except not really because we've got someone to kill)

“Step number one is Aaron Burr,” Alexander says, marching down the street. Thomas, eyes scanning their surroundings like he’s searching for ghosts, spares him just a glance before he goes back to watching for danger.

“Why?”

“We don’t know where Eacker’s place is,” Alexander explains. “We know he lives in Hell’s Kitchen, but not his address. Burr’s the most likely person to know - or at least how to find out.”

“What if Eacker’s not at home?”

“We’ll figure that out when it happens,” Alexander says. Thomas frowns, the fact that Alexander _doesn’t_ have a plan makes his stomach churn. But every plan Thomas ever had ended in someone dying, and he’s not risking anything with Alexander anymore, so Aaron Burr it is.

They walk in silence after that, Thomas keeping his scan going. Every shadow could a threat. He can’t help but hunch his shoulders, as if trying to make himself smaller, but the cop in him says that it just makes him look more suspicious. But he can’t help but want to pull himself in and disappear.

Alexander stalks down the sidewalk, Thomas managing to keep pace easily. It doesn’t take long to reach Abigail’s apartment building, and Alexander manages to get them buzzed in easily. They make the climb up to the apartment and Alexander goes to knock.

“Wait,” Thomas says. “Let me.” Alexander shoots Thomas a look, to which Thomas explains: “Let me go first, okay?”

“It’s just Abigail, Burr and the Theos,” Alexander responds.

“Burr has a gun. That’s enough,” Thomas says. He manages to worm himself in front of the door without touching Alexander and knocks. He can feel his gun where it rests in his waistband, pressing into his skin. The door starts to swing open and Thomas feels himself tense, hand around the butt of his gun.

When Abigail appears, her brow furrows. “You’re still here?” She asks Thomas. Thomas’ eye twitches and he glances back into the apartment. Silently he nods, and Abigail hums to herself. “Alright, I’ll get her. Come in.”

Abigail steps back and Thomas takes a breath before following. Alexander files in behind, shutting the door behind them. Abigail disappears into the back, and a few moments later she and Theodosia creep out silently. Theo is dressed in jeans and a coat, and when she looks at Thomas it’s with a mixture of fear and determination. In her arms is little Teddy, sleeping against her chest.

And then her eyes light on Alexander and confusion flicks across her face. “Alexander?” She asks, whispering. She glances up at Thomas with questions in her eyes, and Abigail steps forward.

“What’s going on?” She asks.

“We came to talk to Burr,” Alexander says, and the two women glance at each other.

“What for?” Abigail asks. Thomas glances down at Alexander, pulling in on himself as he sees the angry fire in Alexander’s eyes flare.

“George Eacker killed Philip and Burr’s the only person who might know where he lives.” Alexander glares at the two women. Theodosia’s eyes glitter.

“Philip is dead?” She asks, pulling Teddy as close as possible. Alexander nods.

“I want blood and Burr can help. Go wake him up or I will,” Alexander snarls. Theodosia looks at Abigail, who sighs.

“Take your coat off love,” Abigail sighs, and then she looks at Thomas. “I want an explanation from you,” she says, pointing with one wrinkled finger at him.

Thomas just nods as Abigail turns around. In the resulting silence, Abigail freezes, and looks over her shoulder at Thomas again. Her gaze is searching, confused, even slightly concerned but then Alexander clears his throat and she starts forward into the hallway again.

Theodosia puts little Teddy onto the couch and slides off her coat. Quickly, she tosses it onto the arm chair and settles onto the couch like she had always been there.

“I don’t know, Alexander and Thomas want you!” Abigail says, voice echoing from the hallway. Thomas glances at Theodosia, then at Alexander, then at the darkened hallway. His instincts, what remain of them anyway, pull at him. There’s something here, Thomas realizes. Theodosia’s coat pulls at his attention. What’s -

“Why you do insist on coming to see me at odd hours of the morning,” Burr sighs, glaring at Alexander with the last dredges of sleep on his face. “ _And_ waking up my family?”

“Theodosia was already up,” Alexander protests, and Thomas sees Theodosia flinch. “That’s not even important. Philip’s dead.”

Any hint of sleep disappears from Burr’s face almost instantly. “Philip’s dead?” he asks. “How?”

“Eacker shot him,” Alexander explains.

“How? I thought you all had Eacker contained?”

“The Sons have gone to shit,” Alexander spits. “Washington’s dead too. Tallmadge is trying to take over. One thing led to another and Eacker shot my son to get away.”

Burr’s eyes glitter, but Theodosia’s eyes are as wide as saucers. She looks down at Teddy, now back safely in her mother’s arms, tears starting to gather in her eyes.

“I need to know where Eacker lives,” Alexander says, glaring at Burr.

“Do you even know he’s going to be at home?” Burr asks. Alexander grits his jaw.

“If he’s not we’ll -.”

“He will be,” Thomas interrupts, suddenly remembering. “He can’t go back to the Redcoats without a… a sacrifice to keep them from killing him.”

“How do you know that?” Alexander asks, whirling on Thomas. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

Thomas flinches, and instantly guilt floods Alexander’s features. “It’s what he told me before he…. before he shot Philip. He wanted to use Philip to save himself but Philip - Philip -” Thomas hugs himself as the sight of Philip, held at gunpoint while Eacker has his arm clamped around his neck flashes in front of his eyes. With it comes _It’s the ‘Coats or nothing_ and _Twenty_ and a gunshot and _I want my papa_ -

“Take a breath sonny,” comes a voice, and Thomas blinks the blood away from his sight. When he looks up, Abigail is hovering over him, and he’s sat down on the couch, Theodosia watching him with wide eyes. “Deep breaths.”

Thomas takes a shuddering breath, digging his fingers into his arms, and drops his head. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, eyes screwed shut. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You are perfectly alright,” Abigail says, and Thomas winces.

“Not alright. Nothing’s alright.” Thomas wants to sink into the couch and vanish. He glances over at Theodosia, who is pushed as far away from Thomas as she can manage, Teddy pressed into her chest. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. For a long second, they just look at each other. Theodosia lets out a breath and looks at him sadly.

“If I can get better, so can you,” Theodosia says eventually, slowly, as if measuring each of her words so carefully. “I have Aaron and Abigail, you have Alexander. You’ll be okay. We’ll both be okay.”

“What’s okay?” Thomas asks. Theodosia gives him a smile, opens her mouth to speak, but Alexander buts in by storming over to the couch.

“The fucker doesn’t know,” Alexander grumbles. Burr sighs from behind him, arms crossed.

“I _said_ I know what street and the apartment number, I just can’t remember the building,” Burr says. “I was there once for a deal, and I usually don’t memorize the addresses of random Redcoats. It would be written down somewhere in my apartment, but we can’t exactly go get that information, can we?”

“Well that’s not fucking helpful!” Alexander says, whirling on Aaron. “What are we supposed to do, go knocking on every door until we find the right one?”

“I’m sorry Hamilton, I can’t tell you something I don’t remember.”

Alexander growls, and spins back around. “Thomas, let’s go,” he demands, instinctively reaching for Thomas’ arm before he stops himself, hand hovering in the air. It seems like all eyes are on it as Alexander jerks it away after a long moment, shoving his hand into his pocket. “Let’s go,” he repeats.

Thomas takes a breath, then nods. Without looking away from where Alexander’s hand is stuck inside his pocket, Thomas stands from the couch. Abigail and Theodosia’s eyes follow him as he quietly nods and stands beside Alexander. He thinks Alexander is about to whirl, to march away but instead he looks at Teddy, then back up at Aaron.

“The one time,” Alexander breathes, “the _one_ time I need you to help me more than any time before, you ‘can’t.’ Of all the times that memory of yours could fail you is the one time I _need_ it to work so I can avenge my son. Philip is _dead_ Burr. He’s fucking dead and he didn’t have to die.”

Burr looks Alexander dead in the eye, face set in stone, as Alexander takes a deep breath. “And it’s your fucking fault, you know that right? If it weren’t for you, Eacker wouldn’t have been taken hostage and Philip wouldn’t be dead. Thomas wouldn’t have gotten tortured and his friend Ben wouldn’t be dead. It’s all gone to shit and it’s your fault.”

 _No, it’s mine,_ Thomas wants to interject. Theodosia looks down in her lap and Thomas wants to scream. It’s his fault, not Burr’s. But Alexander isn’t done. His nostrils flare as he gets all the way up into Burr’s face. “It’s your fault Aaron Burr. Everything has fallen apart because you couldn’t wear a condom. Because you couldn’t stand up for yourself or your family.”

Alexander shoves Burr on the chest, but Burr doesn’t buckle. Instead, Alexander just ends up sending himself stumbling back. “Because of you, Philip is dead. Philip died and Thomas had to watch and Thomas is _fucking broken_ now.” Alexander practically shouts at Burr, voice cracked. “Can’t you see it?! Look at him!” Alexander points at Thomas without looking back at him. “He can’t sleep without nightmares. He won’t talk, not really. Won’t look at me. I can’t touch him without him screaming like he’s been shot.”

Alexander’s breath shudders as he gulps in air to keep talking. “Most of my friends are dead, the Sons are gone, Thomas - that’s not him standing there, it’s not - and all I want to do is kill the man who took my son from me. I wanna kill the fucker that killed Philip, is that too much to ask?”

Alexander’s head drops, his fists clench at his sides as he tries his best to breathe. Thomas wants to reach out and take him into his arms, to gather Alexander up and hold him like he used to do. But he can’t. He’s rooted to the spot because none of that is Burr’s fault it’s all _his_.

Then Burr clears his throat. Alexander looks up sharply, fire burning in his eyes. “I said I didn’t remember the address,” Burr starts, sounding like he’s already regretting what he’s going to say, “But I can remember what Eacker’s building looks like.”

“That doesn’t help at all,” Alexander spits. Burr lets out a sigh.

“It does if I come with you to point out the right building.”

\--------------

Some time later, Thomas finds himself leaving a subway platform in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen on the opposite side of Alexander from Burr. The three pick their way down the sidewalk, Thomas returning to his surveillance of the street they walk down.

“Has Thomas always been that paranoid?” Thomas hears Burr mutter to Alexander. “He’s scanning the street.”

“He was always vigilant, but it wasn’t this bad before…” Alexander trails. Burr glances once at Thomas, expression unreadable before they fall into silence again. The sleeve of Alexander’s - _Maria’s_ \- hoodie keeps almost brushing Thomas’ arm, and he tries to shy away as much as possible. But on the sidewalk, there’s barely enough room for three people side by side without Thomas already stumbling in and out of the gutter.

It doesn’t take them very long to reach Eacker’s street, and Burr starts scanning the buildings as they pass. “Not a very safe street for the three of us to be on,” Burr muses. Thomas tenses even further, and Alexander’s eyes flick up to him for just the briefest of moments.

“It’s dark, no one’s expecting us, we’re fine,” Alexander says. Thomas itches to reach out and take one of Alexander’s hands in his own, but still, he can’t. So he just shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to look as casual as possible.

Burr stops so suddenly on the sidewalk Thomas stumbles to stay in line. Burr looks up a dingy green building, up at the single apartment with a light on. “This one,” Burr says. “Apartment 54.”

“Are you sure?” Alexander says, voice made of gravel as he stares up at the lit window. “I don’t want to go shooting up an innocent place.”

Burr nods. “I’m sure.” Alexander hums, his hand coming to rest on the butt of his pistol poking out of his pants.

“Alright, let's go then,” Alexander says.

“Wait, how do we get in?” Thomas asks. Alexander glances at him, and then points to the side of the building where the fire escape stretches against the cheap siding.

“Through the window,” Alexander says, and stalks around the building. Thomas glances at Burr, whose jaw is set in a hard line. They watch for a moment as Alexander struggles to pull down the fire escape ladder before the short man turns back to them.

“Thomas! Come pull this down!” Alexander calls, and Thomas immediately lurches into action. He heads down the alley, and reaches up for the bottom rung on the ladder. He just manages to swing the ladder down, and the sound of metal on metal screeching echoes in the night. The bottom of the ladder is just barely on the ground before Alexander is already climbing, hauling himself onto the grated platform above.

“It’s five floors up!” Burr calls, coming to stand beside Thomas.

“We gotta get moving then!” Alexander calls back, starting up the flight of metal stairs. Thomas, without even a second thought, grabs onto the ladder and starts to follow. He couldn’t care either way if Burr follows, but he can hear the man start to scrabble up behind him.

When Thomas reaches the fifth floor, Alexander is already slowly sliding the window open. It leads inside to a darkened hallway, the only light spilling from underneath the farthest door. Alexander is inside before Thomas can say anything or check for threats, and Thomas slips in behind, already feeling jittery.

When Burr steps in a moment later, they are the only ones in the hallway, and Alexander starts off into the darkness. Thomas tries to slip past him, to forge ahead into the danger, but Alexander just moves faster and moves so Thomas has to stop from bumping into him.

“Alex, please,” Thomas pleads. Alexander’s fists clench.

“I want the son of a bitch’s face when he realizes what we’re here for,” Alexander says. “I want him to feel as scared as Philip would have been.”

 _I want my papa_ echoes in Thomas’ head as Alexander reaches the farthest door. The brass numbers 54 stand out against the door, light flooding from under the door. Despite the light, there’s no sound from inside. Alexander frowns, and goes to test the doorknob.

Alexander’s hand barely brushes the door before it swings open before him, revealing a tiny apartment within. Almost instantly, Thomas is hit with a familiar, metallic smell. The scent of blood makes his hair stand on end and he pushes Alexander aside to walk into the apartment first, contact be damned.

His gun is already pointed out in front of him, safety off as he slowly steps deeper into the apartment. A part of him wants to call ‘FBI,’ the instinct long ingrained in him from training. Thomas manages to fight it, to keep his mouth shut as he swings his body around to look into the tiny kitchen.

Inside are four people. Two unknown redcoats slumped against either wall, and Eacker laid out on the floor. He clutches at the bleeding hole in his chest, and then convulses as another bullet slams into him. He looks up at Thomas with wide, pleading eyes, gasping in a sucking breath as a third gunshot fires. Thomas flinches at the sound, looking up at the fourth person still standing in the room.

Eliza Schuyler stands over Eacker’s prone form, looking down at him with dead eyes as she fires another round into his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody partially called this twist too and I'm a bit pissed. (Not really ily I just figured this one wouldn't get touched.) 
> 
> See you Friday


	59. Thomas Wishes For Superpowers And That's The Most Interesting Thing That Happens This Chapter I Swear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look trauma is weird and sometimes to cope you just gotta think about having superpowers and fixing all your problems in one fell swoop.

Eliza fires a fifth shot, letting a breath pass before she squeezes the trigger for a sixth time. Eacker falls slack against the floor as Thomas takes a step into the kitchen. He still holds the gun up, poised and ready to shoot.

“Betsy?” Alexander asks, shock and awe in his voice. Eliza doesn’t turn around, and instead fires a seventh shot unto Eacker’s bleeding, bullet-riddled dead body. Alexander shoves past Thomas to grab onto Eliza’s shoulder and turn her around. “Betsy what are you doing?”

“Philip’s dead,” Eliza says, voice hard. Alexander looks up at her, eyes wide.

“Eliza, why are you here?”

“Philip is dead Alexander,” Eliza repeats. Her eyes are devoid of any emotion, it’s like she’s not even looking at Alexander.

“What are you doing _here_?!” Alexander insists. Finally those cold eyes manage to focus in on him.

“Doing what you came to do,” she says. With that, she turns, raising her gun again at Eacker’s body. Alexander gently pulls on her wrist.

“He’s already dead,” Alexander says. “You can stop shooting.” Eliza holds firm and squeezes the trigger but it only clicks. “See, Eliza, it’s empty.”

“Give me your gun,” Eliza says. Alexander shakes his head.

“No, Betsy, he’s dead. You need to go home now,” Alexander insists. “We’ll take you.”

“We?” Eliza says, turning her head. Her empty gaze looks at Thomas and Burr, taking in the sight of them, of the gun still pointed at her. “Oh.”

She’s absolutely covered in blood. It’s splattered up and down her dress, legs and arms. A few flecks dot her face, little running droplets cascading down her cheeks like tears. Thomas’ hand clench around his pistol, fingers safely away from the trigger but the sight of her coated in blood sends his stomach through the floor. If Thomas didn’t know better, he’d say she was hurt or dying.

Even though the other bodies are scattered around the kitchen, a part of his brain still thinks that’s the case. That Eliza is going to collapse and bleed out in front of him too. That he’s shot her and killed _her_ too -

“We’ve got a problem,” Burr says, and Alexander frowns. Burr raises one hand and points out the kitchen window. When Thomas looks, he sees a bright red car pull up on the other side of the street.

“Redcoats?” Alexander says, almost groaning. “Of fucking course.” Thomas narrows his eyes, peering out into the dark.

“No,” he breathes. “That’s the Crown Victoria.”

“What?” Alexander says just as Thomas sees James climb out of the driver’s seat.

“It’s my team,” Thomas mutters. “The cops are here.”

“Well, that’s splendid,” Burr says. Alexander’s jaw sets.

“Alright, back out the fire escape,” he commands. Thomas watches James, Sally, Louis and Sybil all make their way across the street. They’re all wearing bulletproof vests, the yellow FBI letters shining under the streetlights.

“Gotta wait till they’re inside,” Thomas says. “Otherwise they’ll see.” Alexander nods, then pats Eliza on the arm.

“Betsy, come on, let's get you into the living room. Away from… this.” Alexander leads Eliza out of the kitchen, the woman swaying slightly on her feet. Thomas keeps his eyes on the window, watching with bated breath as the group of cops cross the street, guns already in their hands.

James disappears from sight first, followed by Louis and Sally, but then Sybil stops. She stands on the sidewalk, just in front of the building. Thomas knows that from where she’s standing, she can see the fire escape clearly.

“They’ve got eyes on the escape,” Burr says, his own gaze out the window. Thomas nods.

“There’s no other exit, three are coming up,” Thomas says. He’s not thinking, just speaking and working on gut feelings, training and instinct. “The fire escape is probably the only way. They can’t see me.”

Burr nods. “They can’t see any of us,” he counters. Thomas just watches Sybil as she plants herself firmly on the sidewalk. Thomas swears she makes eyes contact with him for a moment, but that’s silly. Of course she can’t see him, he’s too far from the window.

After a long moment, Thomas nods to himself. “Alright, we leave now.” Burr nods, not even hesitating before he turn on one heel and walks through the apartment, announcing to Alexander and Eliza that they’re leaving the way they came.

Thomas hangs back, making sure Alexander and Eliza slide out the window before he even ventures into the hallway. He watches the staircase, listening to the approaching footsteps. He hears Burr slide out of the window, the others already making their way down the metal stairs.

Thomas backs up, keeping his eyes glued to the stairs, fingers twitching against the grip of his gun. Would he be able to fire if it came down to it? Would he be able to look at James down the barrel of a gun?

“Thomas!” Alexander hisses. Thomas glance back to see the man glaring at him through the open window. He motions for Thomas to hurry up, and Thomas finally relents. He turns to climb through the opening, plants one foot on the metal and -

“Hey!”

The shout comes from the staircase. Thomas practically dives out the rest of the way, hitting the metal on his side and he scrambles to his feet.

“Go! Go!” Alexander urges, practically pushing Thomas towards the stairs. Thomas manages to fumble down the metal staircase, not caring how loud he’s being. Burr looks up from where he’s helping to usher Eliza down the stairs. “Go!” Alexander shouts down at him, and Burr pulls Eliza along faster.

Their footsteps clatter down the stairs, shaking the fire escape as they run for the ground. Thomas spares a glance back to see James practically vaulting through the window after them.

“Hey! Stop!” Sybil calls from the ground. Eliza wavers at the top of the ladder leading to the ground, but Burr is ready to go. Without a second thought, Burr pulls his gun and unloads two rounds into the ground at Sybil’s feet.

The police lieutenant dances back and dives behind the building, gun already coming up for return fire. “Drop your weapon!” Sybil shouts, even as Burr practically slides down the ladder to the ground.

“Come on!” Burr calls up to Eliza, who carefully starts down the ladder.

Alexander and Thomas, still a whole flight behind, clamber down the stairs. Thomas almost trips over a stair lip but manages to keep his balance, making sure Alexander is still a few steps ahead of him. Alexander comes first.

Eliza hits the ground, and Sybil pokes her head out, only to duck back in when she sees Burr’s gun pointed at her. “Drop the weapon!” She shouts. Burr has his shirt hiked over his nose as a makeshift mask, and he pushes Eliza’s head down as he pulls her down the alley to the other street.

Alexander follows Burr’s example of rushing down the ladder, but Thomas still gets stuck at the top waiting for him to get far enough down to start after. The gun is heavy in his hand as the fire escape shakes under James and the others pursuit.

Alexander drops the last few rungs of the ladder, and looks up at Thomas. “Come on!”

“Stop!” Louis shouts from behind and above Thomas. “Stop or we’ll open fire!”

Thomas manages to reach the ground in the same moment James reaches the end of the platform, looking down at Thomas, breathing hard. Thomas takes his que from Burr and covers his face as best he can before he spares a glance up.

James looks down at him from the sights of his pistol. “Freeze!” James commands, and Thomas stops for just a moment. What the hell is he doing, running from the cops? From his best friend? Just a week ago he would have been on the opposite side of this chase.

“Laf!” Alexander shouts, and Thomas looks at him in confusion before he realizes: he can’t call Thomas’ name without endangering him. Thomas nods, steps back from the ladder, and then takes off so he runs below the fire escape, practically shielding himself.

James curses, and Thomas can hear footsteps following from above. When he bursts out from under the metal covering, he quickly catches up with the others. He hears Sally shout something about their last warning, and then bullets start slamming into the ground.

“Fuck!” Alexander exclaims, dancing to the side. Burr follows suit, pulling Eliza in the opposite direction. This leaves Thomas in the middle, stuck looking back and forth as Burr and Eliza take off down the sidewalk.

“Meet where I’m staying!” Burr shouts, pulling Eliza along.

“Two hours!” Alexander shouts back, taking off in the opposite direction. Thomas takes a breath and starts to run after him but Alexander shakes his head. “Split! I’ll be alright! Go!” Alexander points in the direction of another alley before he disappears down one of his own.

Thomas can hear the footsteps and bullets getting closer to him, and he shoves down the urge to go after Alexander anyway. He shoots across the street, trying not to think too hard about anything but the best way to run.

“Fuck it! Split and follow!” James calls, and Thomas curses to himself through his heavy breaths. He runs down the alley Alexander had pointed out, sliding a little on loose garbage. When he hits the other side, he runs diagonally left across the street to another alley he can see all the way through.

By the time Thomas hits this alley, he’s sure he’s got a tail just behind him. He doesn’t dare look to see who - his shirt mask has fallen from his face. Thomas can’t be seen. His face can’t be seen and he certainly can’t be caught.

Thomas knows exactly how his tail will follow, he’s had the same training. Unless it’s Sybil, in which case it’s likely she hasn’t had that much training on following suspects so he’s even better off.

So Thomas makes a hard right upon leaving the alley, running down the block until he can double back to the last street, and then keeps moving. He keeps going until he’s managed to put two turns between him and his tail - he sneaks a glance behind him to confirm - and dives behind dumpster.

Thomas tries to control his breathing as his tail catches up, whoever it is stopping just ten feet away from Thomas. They stop on the other side of the dumpster, and Thomas fights his curiosity to look out - to see which one he’s almost managed to evade.

“Goddamn it!” James shouts, breathing heavy and a cold hand clamps around Thomas’ heart. He can’t stop himself from peeking out. James is bent over, hands on his knees as he gasps for air. “Fuck!”

Thomas carefully leans back against the wall, curled in on himself as small as possible. He can’t move, can’t make a sound. The alley he’s in is a dead-end. He hears James moving, but not like he’s coming closer.

“First Thomas,” James mutters to himself, voice breathy. “Then Washington. Now this?!” If Thomas presses himself against the wall, he can peer through the gap between the dumpster and the wall. He can just see James straighten, drop his hands by his sides and glare up at the sky. “Can’t I get _one_ victory? Can’t I win _once?!_ ”

James shouts at God and Thomas watches, silent. As has been His habit recently, God does not answer and James hangs his head for a moment. He lets out one deep breath, then turns to walk back the way they came.

Thomas stays sat up against the wall for a long few minutes, waiting for as long as his nerves will let him wait. When he finally can’t fight himself anymore he peers around the corner to the street to find James long gone.

Thomas lets out the breath that had been caught in his throat the entire time he’d been in the alley, and slowly starts out back to Abigail's. His legs and lungs burn. The empty street around him makes his hair stand on end.

 _Where is Alexander?_ Thomas has no clue, and he berates himself for letting Alexander run off alone. He could be hurt or captured or worse. And it would be Thomas’ fault for leaving him _again_.

There’s no one on the street.  The buildings around him stretch high and crowd in, looming, windows like eyes peering down at him in judgement. The streetlights shine down on Thomas and he can’t stop himself from trying to watch everything at once..

In the distance there’s a sound like a gunshot - perhaps a car backfiring or something falling. It doesn’t matter what it is it _sounds_ like a gunshot and Thomas winces. _Alexander’s fine_ , he thinks. _He’s gotta be fine._

A cat jumps out of a trashcan and Thomas jumps at the sudden movement. His heart pounds in his ears as he watches the scrawny stray disappear into the shadows. His breath is loud in his ears, his footsteps echo like a homing signal for anyone to find him.

Thomas holds himself as he walks, wishing he could shrink or turn invisible so nothing could see or hurt him. _Please let Alexander be fine_. Super speed could be nice too, so he could check the entire city of New York for his Alexander in a moment and carry him to safety.

But Thomas doesn’t have superpowers. If he did, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He wouldn’t be on this street, running from his best friend, praying for the safety of Alexander’s life. Well, perhaps _praying_ isn’t the best word for it, praying doesn’t seem to be doing any good anymore.

In any case, if Thomas had superpowers, he wouldn’t be hoping for Alexander’s safe return. He could go save him. He could have saved _everyone_. Instead he’s on this street, running from the cops.

Alone.

Completely and utterly alone.

_Where the hell is Alexander?_

\--------------

Thomas would call the two hours he spends wandering back to Abigail’s apartment the two most agonizing hours of his life, but he knows that’s not true. He doesn’t know _what_ two hours of his life qualify for this title, but these are up there. Maybe the fourth or fifth most agonizing two hours of his life.

They’re pure hell and not the worst thing he’s ever been through. He’s cold and alone and every shadow and sound makes him jump. He barely knows where he’s going but he keeps walking north and eventually finds himself somewhere he recognizes. The night sky is just starting to lighten when Thomas spots the sign for the diner in the distance.

He manages to stumble his way to Abigail’s just in time to watch Burr and Eliza spill out of an alley farther down the street. Burr looks up, and Thomas can see the spark of relief on his face when he recognizes Thomas through the early morning light. Eliza looks up, her face red and the moment they make eye contact, she bursts into tears.

Thomas freezes, unsure of what to do as Burr pulls the crying woman along the street towards him. The blood on her dress and body has dried and crusted over. Burr gets her to the door and raises his hand to the call board keypad.

“Some night, huh?” Burr asks. Thomas grits his jaw and looks around.

“Where’s Alexan-”

“I’m here!” The call makes Thomas’ head snap to the side, to find Alexander coming down the street in the direction Burr came from. Alexander runs the remaining distance, but stops short when he sees Eliza’s face. “Betsy?”

With a small whimper, Eliza throws herself into Alexander, who just manages to catch her. She buries her face into Alexander’s shoulder. “Our son is dead and I -” her words choke off. Alexander runs a hand down her hair.

“Shh, it’s okay, you did a good thing.”

“How could I?” Eliza asks. “How could I just ki-”

“Shh,” Alexander says again, looking up at Burr. “Let’s get you inside and call your siblings. Do they know where you are?” Eliza shakes her head as Burr takes the cue and punches in his code. As he does so, Thomas looks at Alexander.

“Are you okay?” Thomas asks. “You’re not hurt?”

“No, I’m alright,” Alexander says with a shake of his head. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

The door buzzes open and Burr hauls it open. He leads the group upstairs, Eliza clinging to Alexander and Thomas bringing up the back. _We’re all safe, we made it,_ Thomas thinks. _And if the cops recognized any of us we’d know by now._

 _The cops_. It’s so odd to think of his old team as ‘the cops.’ The enemy. Thomas is supposed to be one of them. But he’s made his choice, hasn’t he? Thomas has damned himself. But then he looks at Alexander, the way he cradles Eliza’s head softly and remembers the feel of Alexander’s hands on his own body.

He’s in the right place. Alexander glances back at Thomas with those flickering eyes and Thomas knows he chose right. He must have. He chose _right_ , surely he did

Burr stops in front of Abigail’s apartment and shoves his hand inside his pocket for his key. Thomas reaches the door last, and by the time he’s level with the group Burr’s already got the key in the door. He turns it, but frowns.

“It’s unlocked,” Burr mutters, reaching for the doorknob. Thomas stiffens as Burr pushes the door open. His eyes narrow as he tries to peer through the opening gap into the apartment.

For the second time tonight, Thomas is overwhelmed by the scent of fresh blood. His eyes widen as Burr rushes into the apartment. Thomas follows a heartbeat later, already reaching for his weapon.

There’s so much blood. It pools on the floor and coats the walls like paint. He hears Burr scream, but his eyes are drawn to the first body, the one closest to the door. Abigail’s silver hair is dyed dark red in blood, her slippers and nightgown matted and soaked.

Then Thomas gets a look at the rest of the room. Burr is knelt over Theodosia’s limp form, hands on her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. “Theo, baby, oh my god,” he mutters. Thomas can see her eyes flutter open slightly, and Burr gasps.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he spots the third body in the room. It’s not Teddy’s, no, it’s far too big and grown to be a baby. It’s a grown woman in a suit, a gun on the floor beside her hand. In a horrifying instant Thomas recognizes her.

“Martha,” Thomas breathes at the same time someone else screams her name. Maybe it was him. He crosses the room, not caring that he’s stepping in pools of blood, just trying to reach her. Thomas drops to his knees and reaches out for her, looking for a pulse or a breath or any sign of life.

But she’s still and cold, her eyes open in glassy death. Thomas clutches at her, pulls her into his lap. _Martha_. “Martha, no,” Thomas calls. Her limp form slumps in his arms as Thomas holds her as tight as possible. “No, no please, not you too.”

“Theo, stay with me,” Burr pleads from the other side of the room. “You’re okay, stay with me.”

“Teddy,” comes a weak croak, wet and feeble. “King has her.”

“Okay, we’ll get her, you just gotta stay with me.”

But Thomas is busy rocking Martha’s body back and forth. _Martha,_ smart, kind Martha. “I’m so sorry,” Thomas keens. “Please, wake up. Wake up.” Nothing matters but the dead weight in his arms and the empty-eyed stare. “I’ll fix everything, please just wake up.” Martha won’t even blink.

A scream comes from behind him, full of pain and loss. Thomas leans into Martha, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters against her skin. “It’s going to be okay, I’ll make everything okay, I’ll fix it all, I’m sorry.”

Whoever screamed must be crying now, ugly sobs that bring tears to Thomas’ own eyes. “I’ll call James and make it all okay, I’m sorry,” Thomas rambles. “Martha, I’m so sorry.”

Thomas doesn’t know how long he sits there, muttering apologies to Martha’s body, before a careful hand comes down on his shoulder. “Thomas,” Alexander mutters. “We have to go.”

Thomas pitches forward, holding Martha as tight as possible. “No,” he keens, “No, I can’t leave her.”

The hand comes back, this time two of them on his shoulders. They pull at him but Thomas just shrugs them off. “Thomas, we need to _go!_ ” Alexander insists. Thomas shakes his head.

“She needs me,” Thomas protests. In a blink, Alexander is in front of Thomas, his hands pulling Thomas’ face up so that they’re looking in each other's eyes. Thomas tries to squirm and pull away, but Alexander holds him in place.

“Thomas, she is dead. You need to leave her,” Alexander says, voice cold and hard. Thomas flinches, but Alexander keeps him still. “You can’t stay here, because that means leaving me, and you promised you’d never leave me.”

Thomas’ heart clenches, his body goes cold. He screws his eyes shut - he can’t watch as he slowly lays Martha back onto the floor. “That’s it, come on,” Alexander mutters, and Thomas lets him help him to his feet.

The moment Thomas is standing he jerks out of Alexander’s hands and spins. He can’t look anymore. When he’s facing the opposite direction, he opens his eyes to find Eliza holding onto a sobbing Burr, who won’t look away from the living room. Thomas spares a glance over to find what he expects - Theodosia’s body limp on the ground.

“Okay, okay,” Alexander says, almost as if he’s speaking to himself more than any of them. Eliza’s crying again as well, but like Thomas she doesn’t look anymore. “We take Eliza home first. Let Angelica and Peggy know what happened.”

Without getting a response from anyone, Alexander nods to himself and gently touches Thomas on the back. It’s a slight touch, just enough to guide Thomas out of the apartment but Thomas lurches forward like he’s been burned. His gaze travels downward and oh _god_ there’s so much blood.

And it’s on him again. Dark red staining his hands and body. Martha’s, Abigail’s, Theo’s. Philip’s, Washington’s, Laurens’. A lump forms in Thomas’ throat but it stays trapped there as he stumbles out into the hallway. His feet feel heavy, his body gangly and uncooperative.

Eliza and Burr follow. Burr’s fighting, not wanting to leave and calling out for his Theodosia, but Alexander and Eliza force him out of the apartment. When they’re all out, Alexander shuts the door and plunges his hand into his pocket.

“Thomas, baby, could you lead us outside?” Alexander asks, pulling out the phone Lafayette gave him. Thomas nods mutely, any words he might want to speak getting stuck somewhere inside him and not wanting to get unstuck. Numbly, Thomas starts down the hallway. His eyes can’t quite focus and the world is fuzzy around him, bloodstained and darker than he’s ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did ya'll forget that Theo Sr canonically and historically dies early too or....? Or that Martha Jefferson was dead before Jefferson even met Hamilton?
> 
> Anyway the list of allies for our boys is swiftly dwindling and now we've got a missing baby to deal with. Wonder how that's gonna play out. Just fine I'm sure.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Theodosia senior died of what likely was stomach cancer in 1794. Her people skills and intelligence helped Burr during his political career, and I personally believe the Hamilton duel - and Burr's subsequent fall from grace, attempted power grab in Mexico, and unfortunate obsession with Hamilton - wouldn't have happened had she lived. Her social force and influence over her husband likely would have at least calmed him down enough not to kill a man. At the very least the Mexico thing wouldn't have happened I mean come on Burr don't do anything your wife wouldn't have done.
> 
> Martha Jefferson died in 1782, two years before Jefferson departed to France as the American ambassador. Some thought Jefferson's assignment would distract him from his growing depression over his wife's death. Martha's death hit him very hard, and he swore not to marry again. Martha's death did leave Jefferson feeling very lost and depressed however, and Jefferson never quite got over her death.
> 
> Abigail Adams died in 1818 of typhoid fever, a little under ten years before her awful shitty husband would die. Fuck John Adams.
> 
> See you Friday!


	60. Herc Speaks From Beyond The Grave To Be A Cool Bro One Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of this bloody night, the group meets up with Laf and the Schuylers to form a plan.

By the time the blood-stained party stumbles out of the elevator and into the Schuyler apartment, Thomas is numb. Not only is he coated in the drying blood, but everyone else is too. The splatters of red on Eliza’s dress are his fault. The flecks on Alexander’s hands are his fault. The red that coats Burr’s arms up to the elbows and paints his pants completely are his fault.

All of it, his fault.

Alexander knocks once before the apartment door flies open. The moment Eliza crosses the threshold, Angelica whisks her away from Burr.

“Eliza, what did you do?” Angelica asks. “Oh my god, okay.” Eliza looks up at her sister, and bursts into tears once more. She willingly walks with Angelica, leaning heavily on her as they pick their way towards the living room.

Burr wavers on his feet alone before Peggy scoops him up. Ze pulls him towards the living area where Angelica already has Eliza in an armchair with a bottle of water.

Thomas is the last in the door and almost instantly Lafayette is on him. “Thomas, are you okay?” Lafayette is careful to let Thomas see their hands but they don’t put a finger on him. Thomas just stares at them, not quite even seeing them past the images of Martha’s body flashing before his eyes.

“One of the FBI is dead,” Alexander explains. “Thomas saw her body. He hasn’t said a word since.” His voice is low so only Lafayette and Thomas hears what he says. Lafayette’s jaw sets and they nod.

“Okay, let’s get you off your feet,” Lafayette mutters, carefully moving so they’re guiding Thomas without touching him. Thomas feels like he’s moving through molasses, his steps are stumbling and slow. Alexander is left standing alone in the entryway.

“Yeah, okay, I’m good, I guess,” Alexander grumbles. Lafayette looks back at Alexander, and Alexander shoves his hands into his pockets. “Fine, sure, Thomas needs more help than me.” Lafayette huffs, leaving Thomas to stand on his own for a moment to turn back to Alexander. They open their mouth to speak -

“Who the hell is Thomas?” Angelica asks. Alexander winces, mouthing curses to himself as Lafayette turns to her. He motions in Thomas’ direction.

“Clark’s not his real name, it’s Thomas,” Lafayette explains. Thomas looks at Angelica, only to see the stormy look on her face. He instantly looks down and away, eyes getting stuck on the dried red on his hands and arms.

“So it’s true then,” Angelica says. “He’s a cop.”

“ _Was_ a cop,” Lafayette corrects. Angelica frowns. She stands up from where she’s consoling Eliza to glare at Thomas.

“He’s a pig.”

“Angelica,” Lafayette starts, sliding between Thomas and Angelica, “he’s not anymore, he’s wanted for a couple of crimes, and he’s not -”

“I don’t care. He’s a cop and you all brought him into _my_ house and just let him stay at Philip’s birthday because Alex wanted to fuck him,” Angelica spits. “That’s not even mentioning how you _risked_ all of us because he’s a goddamned cop!”

“He’s not a danger now!” Lafayette insists.

“He’s a cop that’s covered in blood,” Angelica drawls.

“Look at him!” Lafayette says, almost shouting now. “Look at him and tell me you see a man who’s not literally broken.”

Angelica sneers. “He’s put on an act before. For all we know, he _did_ kill Washington like Tallmadge says and is just playing you.”

“He didn’t,” Lafayette insists.

“And how do you know that?” Angelica asks, arms crossed. Lafayette plunges their hand into their pocket and pulls out their phone.

“I have proof,” Lafayette says. Instantly, all eyes are on their phone in their hand. “Hercules sent me a message that exonerates Thomas.”

Angelica’s eyes glitter. “Alright, let’s see it.”

“It’s a voicemail,” Lafayette says. Angelica shrugs.

“Fine, play it then.”

For the first time, Lafayette hesitates. Their eyes flick first to Alexander, then to Thomas. After a contemplative pause, Lafayette says slowly: “It’s best if just you and I go somewhere else to listen to it.”

“What’s the big deal?” Angelica asks. Lafayette’s jaw sets.

“I didn’t notice he called me until after he died,” Lafayette explains, but even Thomas can tell there’s something else behind their words.

“And? Just play it,” Angelica insists. Still Lafayette hesitates.

“Certainly it’s no problem to just go down the hall…”

“If it’s no problem to move, it’s no problem to stay,” Angelica counters. “Play it right here in front of everyone or I’ll deal with the cop how I want to.”

Alexander stiffens at her threat, but Lafayette sighs. “Fine,” they mutter. “I didn’t hear this until after I managed to pull Thomas to my apartment, so I _trusted_ him before I knew for sure.” With that, they unlock their phone, cup their hand around the speaker, and starts the message.

 _“Laf, hey,”_ Hercules’ deep voice comes over the speaker, breathing in a huff as he runs. Thomas flinches at the sound, remembering the way he looked with his head blown open from the back in the street. “ _Listen fast. Tallmadge has gone off the rails. He’s gone and killed the boss and he’s probably going to kill Clark too. I know you all are mad at him, but you gotta make sure Clark’s good. There’s some things about him you don’t know and if he dies there’s gonna be - oh shit.”_

There’s a pause as Hercules falls silent, but Thomas can still hear him breathing heavy. _“Fuck, okay, we’re on Washington’s street, and - shit!”_ From the way it sounds, it seems like Hercules has to take off even faster. He speaks in a rush. “ _Tallmadge has lost his fucking mind. You need to get out of there. You and everyone else he doesn’t like. Wherever you got Alex stored, if Tallmadge knows_ move him _. Alex and Clark and - fuck! Get off! St- ”_

Hercules is cut off by the sound of a gunshot. Thomas’ breath catches in his throat. There’s silence from the other side of the line following the sound. It seems to stretch on for forever. A gunshot then nothing then _I guess I’m a worse shot than I thought_ and Alex is dead and Thomas isn’t there to save him.

 _Alex, Alex, Alex._ Thomas hears King’s voice in his head, the gunshot resounding through his skull. He claws at his ears to get rid of the noise, but now he can see the blood on his sleeves and everyone’s dead and it’s his fault and _Alex is dead._

There are hands on his shoulders. He can feel his own scars opening up on his body underneath them and there’s even more blood and hands on his shoulder turn into hands everywhere as he struggles to pull away. _Please, don’t make me watch again_. Thomas screws his eyes shut as he’s forced into a chair and hands pull at his to tie him down and -

“Hey, hey, shhhh,” Alexander’s voice cuts through the noise somehow. “Hey, you’re okay, I’m okay.” Thomas whimpers, drawing in on himself. The other hands are gone now and only two remain, holding his wrists gently while forcing his arms down. Thomas jerks his arms away to hold himself and the hands respond by carefully carding through his hair.

“You’re safe, we’re safe,” Alexander mutters, and Thomas leans into the sound, almost searching for the source of it. One of the hands moves to stroke his cheek gently, and Thomas realizes that they’re wiping away tears. Thomas cracks open his eyes to find Alexander hovering over him, holding him carefully.

“There you are,” Alexander coos, like one would talk to a child coming out from hiding. “I’m here, we’re all safe.” Thomas makes another noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to tug at Alexander’s arm until Alexander takes the cue and sits down on the couch next to Thomas.

Alexander eyes Thomas carefully, waiting for Thomas to lean into him before wrapping his arms around Thomas. Thomas’ skin crawls at the contact, but he forces himself to relax. He can hear Alexander’s heartbeat like this and he’s more than willing to stay like this if it means he can hear that sound.

Similarly, he can feel Alexander’s chest rumble when he speaks. “Fuck you Angelica,” he says, voice much harsher than it had been when speaking to Thomas.

“What?” Angelica asks. Right, they’re in the Schuyler apartment.

“Fuck you for making him listen,” Alexander snaps. “Lafayette suggested you two leave but you made him hear that.”

“Is he okay?” Peggy asks, shockingly close to Thomas, and he pushes farther into Alexander. There’s a short pause, then “Okay, stupid question,” ze admits. “But what was that about, you being dead?”

There’s a pause, one of Alexander’s hands moving to run through Thomas’ hair again. “Thomas was made to believe Alexander was dead via a phone call,” Lafayette explains. “King called him and claimed that he had Alexander and made Thomas listen to him ‘shoot’ Alexander.”

“Oh,” Peggy breathes. Thomas buries his face further into Alexander, trying to breathe as best as possible. With each of Alexander’s heartbeats, Thomas’ own heart slows down. The phantom feeling of bleeding fades as he realizes he’s not torn open his wounds. “That’s fucked up.”

“So, are you satisfied Angelica?” Alexander hisses. Thomas manages to peek out to see Lafayette looking at Alexander with a strange mix of anger and relief, and Angelica glaring down at them.

“Angie,” Eliza pipes up, and instantly Angelica spins around and rushes to her sister. “Thomas is hurt, don’t do this to him.”

“He’s a cop Lizzie -”

“He’s not anymore,” Eliza says, her voice soft and gentle. “And he tried to help Philip. I was there at the Frenchman. I saw it, but I was trapped inside and couldn’t get to them. He _tried_.” Angelica’s eyes glitter as she turns back to Thomas and Alexander for a moment. Alexander’s hand on Thomas’ head is steadying, comforting enough that Thomas can look back up at her.

Angelica pauses, but lets out a sigh. “Fine, alright. Whatever. Thomas stays.” Alexander lets out a heavy breath, and Lafayette’s shoulders relax. “What’s his full name?”

“Thomas Jefferson,” Thomas manages to mutter. “I’m from Virginia.”

Angelica nods. “Your family in danger?”

A spike of panic shoots through Thomas, he jolts up with wide eyes. “Oh my god,” he mutters. “Jane.”

“Who’s Jane? Your mom? Sister?” Angelica asks. Thomas winces as the explosions play in his mind again.

“Sister,” he says, pulling in on himself again. This time when Alexander reaches for him he flinches out of the way. Everyone he loves gets hurt. “I’ve got my mom and my siblings. I have no idea if they’re okay.”

“We’ll check. The Jeffersons of Virginia, got it!” Peggy says. “Tallmadge might not like us much, but we’ve still got some of our own clout and men. We’ll make sure they’re safe!”

At Peggy’s outburst, Angelica’s nod of confirmation and Eliza’s gentle smile, relief floods Thomas. “We’ll get Stephen’s division down to Virginia,” Angelica says. “He’ll be loyal enough to keep King off the Jeffersons.”

“Keep Church up here with us,” Peggy adds. Eliza lets her siblings hash out the details, relaxing into her armchair. Thomas glances about the room, most of everyone having calmed down except for Burr.

Burr still sits, ramrod straight, tears still rolling down his face. He’s staring at the blood coating his hands. Despite the tears, his face is blank, impassive. Thomas frowns before he remembers.

“Theodosia,” Thomas breathes.

“Hm?” Alexander asks, following Thomas’ gaze over to where Burr is perched on the edge of his loveseat. “Burr?” Alexander asks hesitantly.

Instantly the room falls silent as all eyes turn to Burr. Burr sits in silence for a long moment, just looking at the blood on his hands. Peggy takes a step towards him, as if ze had forgotten to comfort him, but his hands clench and he suddenly looks up.

“King has my daughter,” he says, voice strong but devoid of any emotion. The atmosphere in the room changes instantly, going solemn and quiet. “He has Teddy,” Burr repeats.

“What do we do?” Eliza asks quietly, voicing the thought in everyone’s head. Peggy frowns and looks around the room.

“We go get her is what we do!” Ze says. Angelica looks at her sibling sadly but firmly.

“King would never just give us Teddy back,” Angelica says. Peggy’s eyes widen.

“We’re the Schuylers!” Ze says, looking glancing around the group for support. “We’re the strongest family in Morningside Heights!”

“And King has the rest of New York,” Angelica counters. “We can’t fight that. We’ll last five minutes before we’re massacred.”

“Haven’t we been fighting King for months now?” Peggy asks. “I thought that’s what started this whole thing! We left the Redcoats.”

“With the Sons,” Lafayette interjects. “The only chance any of us had was sticking together as a group and now the Sons are all but gone. Who knows if there’s _any_ Sons to speak of after the police raid on _The Frenchman._ ”

“Tallmadge and a bunch of them are still running around,” Angelica says. “I should know, they tried to shoot me when I showed up to help them organize.”

“You called the cops,” Eliza interrupts suddenly, looking up at Lafayette. “You’re the one who called the FBI on _The Frenchman_ weren’t you?”

Lafayette sighs, nods and looks down. Alexander’s eyes go wide. “ _You_ called the cops on the Sons?” He asks, shocked. Lafayette sighs again.

“Boss was dead, Tallmadge was threatening me and I needed a distraction. I slipped out and called the cops so they’d be too busy scrambling to come after me.” Lafayette crosses their arms with a huff. “Besides, Tallmadge fucking deserved it.”

Angelica nods. “He did,” she says. “So, we’ve got no Sons backup, I don’t think the cops are willing to help us -” Angelica jerks her head towards Thomas - “so I don’t see a way we’re getting to Teddy without getting us all killed.”

A silence falls. Burr glares angrily at the floor. Thomas pulls his knees up to his chest, planting his feet on the couch. They wouldn’t be in this situation without him, so he needs to _think_. Has to come up with the grand plan and fix it all -

“Who says we don’t have Sons backup?” Burr says slowly. All eyes snap to him as he looks up. Angelica’s expression finally breaks into something akin to sympathy. When she speaks it’s gentle, consoling.

“Tallmadge would likely shoot us on sight -”

“He doesn’t have to know what’s happening,” Burr interrupts. “If we can somehow set up a confrontation between Tallmadge and King, we can use that as cover to slip behind King’s line and find my daughter.”

“Get in and out under the chaos,” Alexander says in awe. “Burr, that’s genius!”

“How do we get Tallmadge to go along with it without him knowing?” Angelica asks, face still set in stone.

“Tallmadge likes to believe he’s the smartest man in the room, that he’s always in control and pulling the strings. If we’re to let him believe that he _is_ in control and play our cards right, we can play him like a damn fiddle,” Burr says. “I’ve worked with him before, I know how he is.”

Peggy nods enthusiastically, Angelica’s eyes glitter, like she’s coming around to the idea, but then Lafayette steps forward.

“Maybe if the Sons were still as strong as they were even three weeks ago,” Lafayette says. “But as scattered and destroyed as they are? They won’t last near long enough for us to get anywhere near Teddy. King will crush them and we’ll be caught.”

Peggy’s smile fades as Lafayette’s words sink in. Angelica thinks a moment, then sighs. “They’re right -”

“Police,” Thomas cuts in. All eyes snap to him and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t said anything, that he could shrink and disappear into the couch. But he steadies himself and explains: “If we get the police and FBI involved in this standoff, a three-way conflict could distract King for much longer.”

“If he has to worry about both the Sons and the police, his attention will be split, both groups will last longer, and the whole situation will be more chaotic,” Alexander says, suddenly excited. “Thomas, that’s it! Bring the police in as another force and we could do this!”

“We could have a _chance_ ,” Angelica corrects, but the glimmer of hope has returned to her face and there’s a small smile. Alexander beams at Thomas, and Thomas’ heart flutters at the sight. He did it, he thought up the plan. Well, part of it, but he _did_ it!

“So what, we distract King and just go searching his headquarters?” Lafayette asks. “Who says he’d leave it unguarded? Who says King himself would leave? We can’t focus the fight on the main warehouse and compound, we’ll get caught in the crossfire.”

“Situate this standoff close enough to the main headquarters to draw the entire Redcoat force there out, but far enough away that any group left behind would be small and easy to avoid or deal with,” Angelica suggests, and Peggy grins at her.

“And then what?” Eliza asks. “Say we get Teddy and all get out, what then?”

“We leave,” Alexander says, looking at her. “We run and get the hell out of New York.” Looks of surprise flit across everyone’s faces, but Thomas can’t help the relief that floods him. “There’s nothing here left for any of us, and if we stay we’ll just be even bigger targets than before - and King already has a price on our heads.” Alexander motions to himself and Thomas. “We get out and start over somewhere else.”

“Like where?” Eliza asks. Alexander shrugs.

“I’ve always wanted to see California,” he says. “But we could always go south, Central America maybe. Sneak into Europe. I don’t know. We just need to leave.”

“Once we get Teddy,” Burr interjects. Alexander nods quickly.

“Of course. We couldn’t leave without her.”

“So, we find a way to set up this magical three-way standoff, get Burr’s daughter, and flee to who knows where?” Angelica asks. There are approving nods from most of the group, even Eliza seems okay with it. Thomas doesn’t nod until he sees the way Alexander’s eyes gleam and how he almost bounces in his seat.

“There’s still a lot of details left to figure out,” Lafayette says, even though they too have a slight smile flitting across thier face.

Peggy nods. “Alright, then let’s figure this out. Operation Teddy Rescue starts now!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it: the final team set to take on the last problem.
> 
> This will go _great_ I'm sure.
> 
> See you Friday


	61. I Get Really Artsy In This Chapter For No Reason Besides I Was In A Mood When I Wrote This One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's better than some artsy metaphors to try and describe Thomas' mental state as Alex does what Alex does best - Fuck Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYOOOOO SPOILERS IN THIS WARNING FOR DUB-CON
> 
> SO THIS CHAPTER HAS A THING I NEVER THOUGHT I'D WRITE STRAIGHT. I GOT A CLOSE A BIT IN ANOTHER FIC BUT THAT WAS JUST A MISUNDERSTANDING BUT HERE IT'S A THING
> 
> THERE'S SOME SERIOUS DUBIOUS CONSENT HERE HAPPENING BECAUSE THOMAS IS IN A BAD MENTAL STATE AND ALEX MAKES BAD CHOICES AND IT DOESN'T GO SUPER FAR. IF YOU WANT TO SKIP IT, READ UNTIL "But then Alexander moves in again, this time the kiss more forceful." AND THEN YOU'RE DONE. I'LL THROW A SUMMARY IN THE END NOTES.
> 
> TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES

The planning duties end up getting split as such: Lafayette and Angelica handle the planning of the standoff and how they’re going to actually sneak in and get Teddy. Burr and Eliza are meant to think up how to get Tallmadge and the police to go along with the plan. Peggy is on supply duty, which includes the Schuyler manpower. Alexander has to figure out their escape plan and destination.

Which leaves Thomas to wander Lafayette’s apartment and clean.

With nothing to do, Thomas has to find something to keep his mind occupied or else risk a repeat of the first day. As much as Thomas wants to just curl up in the corner and wait for something to happen, the look Alexander had given him when Thomas had moved towards Lafayette’s bedroom had broken his heart.

So Thomas diligently cleans everything he can, straightening countertops, dusting and sweeping the floors. The only thing he doesn’t do is laundry. Lafayette insists they do that themselves, collecting Alexander’s, Thomas’ and Burr’s bloody clothes. While Lafayette carefully treats their bloodstained clothes the other three go on a careful search for an extra set of sheets for Burr to use on the couch.

Thomas insists on being the one to make Burr’s bed, silently stretching out the blankets and sheets. He can feel Alexander and Burr’s eyes on him, but he just makes the couch up and that’s what gives him the idea to just clean the apartment in general.

Burr ends up borrowing a set of Alexander’s clothes while Thomas takes a third set from Lafayette, feeling even more like a burden when he’s presented with them. But there’s nothing else to do but wear Lafayette’s clothing and hope his cleaning makes up for it.

Burr sleeps on the couch while Thomas gets Lafayette’s bedroom again. Lafayette and Alexander take the guest bedroom. In the morning, Thomas makes everyone’s beds and does the dishes from breakfast. The Schuyler sisters are called, put on video chat and the group gets to work.

And so the days pass like that. Thomas cleaning and wandering the apartment in circles as the others work. Thomas doesn’t tend to listen except for when Alexander speaks.

On the third day of this new routine, Thomas spends his time carefully cleaning the bathroom. There are some specks of blood in the shower, some a few days old and a few fresh from last night. Thomas grits his teeth and scrubs them off, keepings his eyes averted as much as possible, tossing the ruined cleaning supplies quickly and scrubbing his hands in the sink for a very long time.

Lafayette fetches Thomas for dinner, and he picks at a sandwich while listening to the group work and debate. He ends up sat on the couch with Alexander and Burr while Lafayette leans on the back. Thomas’ back rests against the arm rest, his feet on the couch and his body curled up tight.

“I just don’t think smuggling seven people and a baby to Argentina on such short notice is gonna happen Alex,” Peggy says. “If I had even a week more, maybe, _maybe_ I could pull it off. I can do Mexico, Guatemala at the furthest south.”

“I don’t wanna fuck with the cartels,” Alexander insists. “At best, they’ll sell us back to King.”

“You assume we’re gonna end up with the cartels?” Peggy asks. Alexander shakes his head.

“No, but I don’t wanna risk it.”

“So we’re stuck in the US for a bit then,” Peggy says. “Do we stick to cities or go to nowheresville, boring state?” Alexander hesitates, his leg bouncing on the couch.

“Country,” Burr interjects. “I don’t want Teddy growing up in a city.”

“The destination is Alexander’s job,” Thomas says gently, and Burr looks up at him with a frown.

“Yeah, but shouldn’t our preferences factor into it? If all of us want to go out to the hills then Alexander shouldn’t pick a city.”

“Well I think disappearing into a city is our best shot,” Peggy says. Angelica nods her agreement.

“The country would be peaceful,” Eliza muses.

“But a big city could be safe, anonymous,’ Lafayette says. Alexander glances between each person, and then his gaze settles on Thomas. It takes Thomas a heartbeat to realize Alexander is waiting on his opinion. Thomas pulls in on himself, clutching his barely eaten food.

“I wanna stay away from cities,” Thomas says, the choice not a hard one. “I wanna go -” _home_ -”out to the country.”

Alexander’s eyes shine as they search Thomas’s face, like he’s looking for something buried there inside Thomas. “Alexander,” Angelica says, “it’s up to you.” Thomas isn’t sure what his face reads, if it reads anything at all, but Alexander swallows. His expression softens just the tiniest bit, and he turns back to the siblings on Lafayette’s laptop.

“The country’s best. Disappear into a small town where no one will look,” Alexander says. Peggy deflates with a groan and Thomas feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. They’ll go somewhere secluded, somewhere peaceful, away from the violence and blood, somewhere like home.

Home but with Alexander.

“Okay, whatever,” Peggy grumbles. “Pick wherever you wanna go I guess. I just request not the desert? The mountains wouldn’t be too bad…” Peggy rambles for a moment, but Thomas tunes it out. He’s too busy thinking about the new life that’s awaiting him. Picturesque vistas, birds chirping in the mornings, a peaceful life with Alexander by his side -

“Thomas, please eat something,” Alexander himself manages to interrupt Thomas’ paradise, pulling Thomas away from an elegant but simple breakfast surrounded by streaming sunlight to a dark, crowded apartment with the curtains drawn and a simple half a sandwich.

Alexander looks down at him with concern in his eyes, and Thomas pulls his feet in the littlest bit further. But he can’t argue with Alexander, can’t deny him anything so Thomas lets Alexander watch as Thomas forces the food down his throat. His stomach revolts at it, but he tries to give Alexander a smile when he’s finished. It must be enough to satisfy Alexander for the moment because the man turns back to the phone and the conversation.

“This would be so much easier if ya’ll had just stayed with us,” Peggy whines. “Why did you guys even have to leave?”

“We’ve been over this,” Burr says, “Lafayette might be what we use to push Tallmadge around and if that’s the case then they have to look like they’re just living normally.”

“Well, what about the other three?” Peggy asks. “We could have just one giant slumber party and -”

Peggy is interrupted by a sudden harsh knocking on the door. The entire group jumps, looking at the front door in suddenly scared silence. There’s a pause, then the knocking comes again, somehow harder this time.

“Lafayette! FBI!” Thomas’ eyes widen as he recognizes James’ voice, so full of anger and muffled by the door. “Open up!” The men all share a glance, and then Burr lurches for the phone.

“Hey, what’s -” Angelica’s question is cut off by Burr ending the call. Burr looks at Thomas and Alexander in silence, and makes a motion for Thomas to get up.

Thomas, on the other hand, is frozen. James is just on the other side of that door. James, his best friend, his enemy. James, good James who had let him down so easy that awful night. James, Jemmy, Mads -

Thomas is pulled roughly to his feet by Burr, helped along by Alexander pushing Thomas upwards. They’re as quiet as possible as Lafayette turns towards the door. “I’ll be there in a moment!” They call.

Thomas is shuffled off, half-pulled, half-pushed towards the hallway. James knocks again.

“Lafayette! Open the damn door! Last chance!” James shouts.

“I said one moment!” Lafayette shouts back, motioning for the group to _move faster._ Thomas is just past the doorway when the front door comes crashing open.

Burr pulls Thomas the rest of the way into cover, then freezes. Alexander is still in the living room, but he too stops, looking in James’ and Lafayette’s direction coldly. There’s a moment of silence, then:

“Where is he?” James asks. Thomas can hear footsteps as James comes into the apartment.

“You didn’t have to kick the door down, I was in the bathroom -” Lafayette starts, but then there’s a loud thud as the door slams against the frame.

“Where is Thomas?” James demands.

“I don’t know, where is he?” Alexander asks. “I thought he went home _voluntarily_.” There’s a bitterness and an anger in his voice that makes Thomas flinch. In the resulting silence, Thomas can picture the pinched, angry look on James’ face as he realizes that he’s busted himself in a lie.

“Fine. I had him sent home against his will. Happy?” James spits. Alexander’s eyes narrow, but that’s all Thomas can see from where Burr keeps him in the hallway.

“Then why don’t you know where he is?” Alexander asks. “Why would Laf or I know?”

James practically growls. “Because he broke out of arrest and there’s only one logical place he’d go, and that’s wherever _you_ are Hamilton.”

Alexander shrugs, moving away from the hall and closer to James. “Well, he’s not here. I haven’t seen him, and I don’t want to see him.”

Thomas’ blood runs cold, and Burr’s hand clenches around Thomas’ wrist. Thomas wants to tear his arm from Burr’s grasp, but he doesn’t dare move.

“Bullshit,” James snaps. “Where the hell is Thomas?”

“We don’t know!” Lafayette insists. There’s a pause, and then James takes a low breath.

“I know you two were at Eacker’s the other night,” James says. “You two, one of the Schuylers, and someone else. If you tell me where Thomas is, I’ll let the Eacker thing disappear.”

“Then arrest us because we can’t tell you,” Lafayette says. There’s a sudden movement of footsteps, then -  
“Do not test me Lafayette,” James says. “I have had a _very_ bad few days.”

“Do not test me either Madison,” Lafayette counters, their voice suddenly colder than Thomas has ever heard before. “You do not know who I am or what I can do.”

“Are you threatening an FBI agent?” James hisses.

“Don’t you have anything else better to do than be here, threatening _us_?” Alexander asks. “Like, I don’t know, actually _looking_ for Thomas?”

“You know what?” James says, turning on Alexander now, the words accompanied by more footsteps coming closer to the hallway. “Do you know what I’ve had to deal with? One of my agents _died_ the other night. Theodosia decided to talk and now she’s dead _too_. You two _killed_ the other best lead into the Redcoats we had. My best friend is _missing_ again. Burr and his daughter _vanished_. King hasn’t let up on his _massacre_ of New York. The Sons won’t talk to me - Tallmadge tried to _kill_ me now that Washington’s gone. All in a few days. So why don’t you shut up and tell me where Thomas is?”

There’s a pause, then: “Do you want me to shut up or tell you where Thomas is? I can’t do both -”

“Alexander Hamilton, you’re under arrest for the murder of -” James starts, but Alexander lets out a noise of shock.

“Oh you can’t be fucking serious!” Alexander exclaims, even as James keeps droning on, their voices raising in equal measure. “ _I don’t know where he is!_ ”

“Just tell me the truth!”

Thomas can hear rapid footsteps, Alexander shooting away from the hallway with James going after him.

“Fuck you, I don’t even wanna know where Thomas is -”

“That’s a lie.”

Thomas wavers in place. He sees Alexander dart into the kitchen, James following. He can hear something crash, fall to the ground and break.

“You can’t arrest me for jack shit -”

“ - I beg to differ, there’s a lot I could arrest you for -”

If Thomas just goes out there he stops this. As if Burr could read his mind, the grip on his wrist tightens even further.

“- Stop trying to fucking grab me!”

“Stop trying to run then!”

“Fuck off!” Alexander shouts, and their argument devolves until Thomas can’t tell what’s being said anymore. If he just shows his face, he can stop Alexander from getting hurt -

“Thomas is dead!”

Silence descends after Lafayette’s outburst. Everything is still for a moment, Thomas’ own breath caught in his throat.

“What?” Asks both Alexander and James at the same time, voices quiet in shock. Lafayette lets out a breath.

“After what happened at _The Frenchman_ , I found Thomas with Philip’s body,” Lafayette begins. “I tried to get him to come back here but he said he had something to do. He told me he ‘knew’ that Alex was dead - I think he was tricked somehow - and he had to go do something. He wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell him otherwise. He had this… this empty look on his face and when he walked off I followed.”

Thomas listens with bated breath, not sure where Lafayette is going with this. Lafayette’s voice is sad, low, as if they’re really telling the truth.

“I stayed far behind him, I didn’t want him seeing me trailing him. I don’t think he was even in his own mind really but…” Lafayette trails a moment, then continues: “I followed him to the George Washington bridge. I was too far behind him to stop it.”

There’s another heartbeat of silence as Lafayette’s implication sinks in. You could hear a pin drop. Thomas’ eyes widen. Lafayette is claiming that he’s dead. A suicide off a bridge. A voice in Thomas’ head says that the concept isn’t too unbelievable, that maybe he should go make it a reality, but Thomas shuts his eyes and listens to the voices _not_ in his head.

“...you didn’t tell me,” Alexander mutters, obviously playing along. “You knew he was dead and _you didn’t tell me?!_ ”

“I knew you’d be upset!” Lafayette protests. “I was going to tell you after this was all over and you moved on.”

“Thomas is fucking _dead_?!” Alexander shrieks. James is silent.

“I’m sorry,” Lafayette says. Something else falls from the counter, shattering against the ground. “Agent Madison, I -”

“Are you telling me the truth?” James asks, voice suddenly hoarse. There’s a pause, then Lafayette answers:

“Yes.”

James takes a shuddering breath. Thomas can hear in in the dead silence. “If you are lying to me I will drag you to Rikers by your hair and throw you in the darkest cell and fill it with as many Redcoats as I can find until it is you against a crowd of pissed off King supporters.”

“I would have saved him if I could,” Lafayette says. “Believe me I would have.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then a low sounds starts up. Thomas doesn’t know what it is at first, but it feels ticklingly familiar until it gets louder and Thomas realizes James is _laughing_.

“Of course he’s dead!” James exclaims. “Of course he’s dead because nothing about this assignment went right. Not a single damn thing! First Ben, then Martha, now Thomas? I…” James breaks into another fit of giggles. “We shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have taken this assignment. Everything’s fucked!”

“Madison -” Lafayette tries, but James barks one last laugh. It sounds distorted, odd, unlike any other time Thomas has heard his friend laugh. It makes his heart stop, a chill running down his spine at the sound.

“I can’t even go find his body yet because we don’t have the manpower and time to go diving safely!” There are footsteps, ones that head towards the front door. “Well, I hope he can withstand water damage for a few more days!”

It’s Alexander’s turn to try. “Madison, I -”

“No!” All the laughter disappears from James in an instant. His voice is as cold as ice. “I don’t want to hear anything from you. This is all _your_ fault. Thomas’ blood is on _your_ hands. I said if you told me where Thomas is I wouldn’t arrest you, and I’m a man of my word. However, the next time I see you, Alexander Hamilton, you better hope someone gets to you before I do.”

With that, Thomas hears the door open and close, and then swing open slightly. There’s a long moment where everyone waits, almost frozen in place.

“I think we’re good?” Alexander says, slowly, hesitantly. Thomas pokes his head out into the living room cautiously in time to watch Lafayette grab a bar stool and drag it over to the door. He doesn’t leave the safety of the hallway until Lafayette props the stool against the door, effectively locking it now that it’s been damaged.

Thomas slowly comes out into the brightly lit living room. There are two smashed glasses on the kitchen floor, knocked down from where Thomas had painstakingly left them to dry on the counter after breakfast. Burr follows Thomas, and Lafayette reaches for the broom.

“You told him I was dead,” Thomas says, voice sounding hollow to even himself. Lafayette stops, hand outstretched in the air, then sighs.

“I had to get him out of here somehow,” Lafayette says apologetically. “And now he won’t be looking for you -”

“You told my best friend I was dead.” Thomas wavers on his feet, staring at Lafayette in disbelief. Lafayette turns to him, frown stretched across their face.

“I’m sorry, I said the first thing I thought could work,” Lafayette explains.

“Not really your friend anymore anyway,” Burr says from where he’s thrown himself on the couch. Thomas looks at him with wide eyes.

“Aaron!” Lafayette snaps, the same moment Alexander shoves Burr roughly on the shoulder.

“What? It’s true,” Burr says. “Thomas isn’t an Agent anymore; he and Madison _can’t_ be friends.”

The words strike Thomas like blows, confirming what had been floating in the back of his head. He had chosen that, hadn’t he? Chosen to turn his back on his family and James and everyone else.

Lafayette is berating Aaron in rapid-fire speech, but Thomas is checked out, every memory of James playing in his head like a film. Them as kids on a playground, sat together in school, working -

“Thomas?” Alexander asks, snapping Thomas out of his train of thought. Thomas blinks, then takes a step back into the hallway.

“I’m gonna go start cleaning again,” he says. Alexander’s eyes glitter with worry but Thomas just turns and his feet automatically go for Lafayette’s bedroom. He fights back memories of James, he can’t be consumed by that right now. Focus on straightening and organizing Lafayette’s bookshelf instead.

Pick up those books that have fallen down or slipped into a slant. _James trying to stifle laughter as Thomas mocks the teacher’s uppity stance_. Reshelve by author, then series. _James hiding Thomas from his father’s wrath after Peter turned up dead, wrapping Thomas in a blanket and staying up with him overnight_. Authors in alphabetical order, French works intermixed with English ones.

_Pulling back from the kiss. “I’m in love with you,” the words spilling out. James nodding as if he’s known for a while - perhaps he has. James stepping back, pulling out of Thomas’ gentle hold on his shoulders._

_“And I love you too,” James answering, Thomas’ heart soaring in shocked disbelief. “But not like you love me.”_

_“I figured,” Thomas forcing the words out of his dry throat, heart plummeting back down. “I had to tell you before…” Gesturing to James’ done up appearance, the roses in his hands. James nodding again._

_“Are you okay?’ James asking. Thomas knowing what the question means. It’s not ‘are you okay’ it’s ‘do you need to talk it out now or can it wait?’_

_“I can wait.”_

_“Okay. Dolley’s waiting.”_

_“Have fun.”_

_Thomas wrapping himself in the jacket, waiting up for James in silence._

The loose novels arranged by alphabetical order. Careful not to wet the covers or pages with tears.

“Thomas?” Alexander asks, the simple call once again pulling Thomas out of memory. It’s like calling a puppy from the yard, all Alexander needs is his name and he surfaces, ears pricked.

“Yes?” Thomas responds, pushing the last book into place.

“Are you okay?” Alexander asks.

“I still love you,” Thomas answers. He hears Alexander’s breath catch, the door shut quietly and a few careful footsteps towards him.

“That’s not what I asked,” Alexander says.

“Isn’t it?” Thomas responds, finally looking up at Alexander. “You’re worried I don’t love you. Because of James and King and everything, you think I might not love you anymore.” Alexander lets out a breath, eyes widening.

“Oh, Thomas,” he breathes. “I know you still love me.” He’s standing much closer than Thomas thought he was, close enough to reach up to his face like he’s going to wipe away the tears there. But then Alexander hesitates, hand hovering so very close but so very far away from Thomas. Thomas’ skin prickles at the closeness without contact.

Thomas gently moves so he presses into Alexander’s hand. The calloused skin there feeling like an old apartment you used to live in, home but not anymore. Thomas wishes it still felt like home.

Alexander gently runs his thumb across Thomas’ cheek, the worried frown fighting with a smile as Alexander wipes Thomas’ face dry.

“You were dead,” Thomas says, voice cracking. “You were dead and then you were angry with me and then -”

“Shhh,” Alexander says. His other hand comes up and he’s holding Thomas’ face close and now it feels like your apartment on the day you move out. Thomas raises two trembling hands to hold onto Alexander’s arms.

Alexander closes the distance slowly, watching Thomas the whole time until they’re hovering just a hair’s breath away. And there they stay for a moment, their bodies so very close but so very far. Thomas’ heart beats in his ears, their contact not eliciting the fire he’s expecting but it still feels wrong somehow.

So when Alexander presses his lips ever so slightly onto Thomas’, it’s almost okay. It’s light, barely there, still and soft. When Alexander pulls away, Thomas has to remind himself to breathe. It’s like he walked into his apartment to find it torn apart by thieves. It’s home, but ruined. Drawers torn from dressers, things strewn apart, all the precious things gone.

But then Alexander moves in again, this time the kiss more forceful. Alexander presses himself against Thomas, his lips moving against Thomas’ still ones. It’s as if Alexander is looking to draw out a response, and he must find one in the way that Thomas’ grip tightens around his upper arms.

When Alexander pulls away, Thomas opens his eyes. The longing and want in Alexander’s eyes knocks Thomas off guard. Alexander loops his arms around Thomas’ neck, pecking kisses along Thomas’ lips and jaw. Thomas realizes that Alexander is pulling him along, crossing the room.

 _Maybe Alexander still loves me_ , Thomas thinks. He can almost tell from the gentle way Alexander’s hands thread through his hair and the soft ghosting of lips across his own. Alexander might still love him, and Thomas still loves Alexander. Thomas loves him so much it feels like his heart is going to burst from his chest in the way it jackhammers against his ribs.

And so, standing in the torn tatters of his once-secure home, Thomas decides to let Alexander do what he wants. Maybe he knows more about cleaning up after a theft than Thomas does. Hopefully he knows how to pick up the mess and replace stolen things and make this home again. How to make _Alexander_ Thomas’ home again.

When Thomas’ legs hit the bed and Alexander’s hands slip to push him gently down, Thomas goes. He spreads his legs when Alexander’s knee asks for room to slide between them. Thomas lets Alexander put him on his back, hands sliding over his body like grease, tongue asking for entrance into Thomas’ mouth.

He feels himself tense under the pressure. His body is on fire where Alexander’s fingers ghost over his sweatshirt. Thomas doesn’t move as Alexander unzips the hoodie Laf gave him, his hands lying beside him, fingers digging into the sheets.

Alexander leans up into Thomas’ ear as his hands slide underneath the sweatshirt, working it down Thomas’ arms. “Shhh,” Alexander whispers, “Shhh I’m here. It’s me. I’m alive. I’m still here.” Alexander’s teeth graze along Thomas’ ear and Thomas shudders, the clenching in his gut tightening and twisting until he almost feels nauseous.

“It’s okay baby, relax,” Alexander mutters, voice dropping lower into an octave that sends chills down Thomas’ spine. He has to bite down on a whimper, has to let Alexander work his hands free from the sheets to slide the hoodie off. Alexander wiggles it free from under Thomas, Thomas hears it hit the floor somewhere, the sound faint behind the roaring in his ears.

 _It’s Alexander,_ Thomas thinks as Alexander reconnects their lips. Thomas forces himself to try and relax, to make this tension melt away like it should under Alexander’s touch. This should be okay. This _is_ okay, surely it is.

Alexander is busy exploring Thomas’ mouth with his tongue, his eyes shut and Thomas follows suit, closing his eyes and waiting for the good to come. Waits for Alexander to build Thomas a home in his lap again, in his arms, under his hands, in his fire-brown eyes.

Alexander keeps one hand threaded with one of Thomas’ and he runs the other hand up and down Thomas’ chest. He teases the end of Thomas’ shirt between his fingers, burning sparks fly where his fingertips brush Thomas’ bare skin. And then, instead of going under Thomas’ shirt like Thomas had been preparing for - breathing in and out as steadily as possible - Alexander reaches down further and starts to palm Thomas through his jeans.

And even though it’s through two layers of fabric, even though Alexander is touching him so softly and gently, even though it’s _Alexander,_ Thomas suddenly feels like he’s been locked inside a burning building, flames licking at his body and threatening to consume him, burn him to nothing but charred bone.

It’s all too much, too hot, too bright at once and Thomas suddenly finds his body again. He heaves Alexander off his body in one strong movement. Alexander is unprepared and goes tumbling off of the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy _thud_. Thomas flings himself from the bed, not even looking at where Alexander is staring at the ground in a daze.

By the time Alexander manages to regain his bearings and stand, anger flickering in his eyes and jaw set, Thomas has retreated to the darkest corner of Lafayette’s closet. He sits, knees pulled up to his chest, holding himself as tight as he can. His breath comes in short gasps as he rocks back and forth.

His home is in flames. The smoke burns his lungs as the walls around him crumble into ash. He can’t breathe, the dark plumes fill his lungs and he can’t scream for help without air. His body is a bonfire, the light blinding him as he screws his eyes shut and just waits for the burning to stop.

Through the sound of his own heart hammering and the crackle of the flames Thomas can hear a door getting thrown open and someone yelling for Lafayette, for help, for anything and then there’s a set of rushed footsteps and the light from outside the closet dims around Thomas.

“Thomas,” Lafayette breathes, then louder “What did you do Alexander?”

“I just - I…” As Alexander trails, Lafayette huffs and comes closer to Thomas, who instinctively tries to shrink away.

“Thomas, it’s okay, you’re safe,” Lafayette coos, crouching down and settling in for a long haul. “We’re all safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who skipped:
> 
> Alex basically kisses Thomas and then pulls him over to Lafayette's bed. Thomas lets him to do it, thinking that maybe if he puts his trust in Alexander that it'll be alright, and that _surely_ Alexander knows what he's doing. However, Thomas isn't super on-board with it but forcing himself to be, and when Alexander goes to take it a step past kissing, Thomas' fight-or-flight takes over and throws Alexander off. He goes to hide from Alexander in the closet, having a total breakdown. Alexander, finally realizing that he made a bad choice, calls for Lafayette to come help and Lafayette starts to attempt to pull Thomas out, and that's where the chapter ends.
> 
> In other news: To all of you being like 'Let Thomas talk to James,' Thomas _can't_ talk to James. James would be forced to arrest him and drag him away again. While that would probably be the _best_ for Thomas, it's highly against Thomas' wishes and so would be a not great thing from his perspective. As much as Thomas wants to talk to James, he knows he can't.
> 
> Also early update because I'm busy tomorrow
> 
> See you next Friday!


	62. In Which Burr Is Right About Some Things, Wrong About Some Others But Is A Huge Dick About It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette gets Thomas out of the closet, Alexander says some things and Burr decides to take matters into his own hands.

It takes a long time, Lafayette coaxing Thomas out like one would coax a small kitten in a pipe to come out, but eventually Lafayette manages to get Thomas out of the small space and back into the bedroom.

Thomas sways on his own two feet, brain still buzzing with the remnants of flames, and Lafayette dares not touch him, even as he stumbles slightly as he trips on a pair of Lafayette’s shoes. Alexander stops where he’d been pacing the floor, looking up at Thomas in guilty relief. Burr leans against the doorframe, his stony countenance not breaking or giving anything away as he watches Thomas with narrowed eyes.

“Why don’t we get you into bed,” Lafayette murmurs, hovering around Thomas without laying a hand on him. “Come on, into bed.” Lafayette pulls at the covers, motioning for Thomas to crawl in. But Thomas shakes his head, throat closed around any words and he backs up. Lafayette’s eyes flash as he whimpers slightly, like a wounded animal pulled from a burning building.

He doesn’t go back for the closet, but Thomas’ gaze flicks back and forth between Alexander and the bed. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want the bed, he wants Alexander but not the bed and not them both together, not like that at least.

Lafayette’s eyes widen, their jaw clenches and they glance once in Alexander’s direction. Before Thomas’ protective instincts kick in however, Lafayette lets out a breath and looks back at him. “Okay, do you want to lie down in the other bedroom?” Lafayette asks. “Would that be okay?”

Thomas swallows, the thickness in his throat threatening to choke him on his very spit but he nods. The other bed is okay. Lafayette smiles at him and leads him down the hall just slightly and helps him crawl beneath the sheets.

They’re not quite as soft and nice as the ones in Lafayette’s bedroom, but they’re still nice, and Thomas curls up underneath them. Lafayette coos and murmurs and whispers sweet things but Thomas isn’t listening. He just wants to bury his head beneath the covers and maybe they’ll suffocate him.

At some point Lafayette gently smooths the covers one more time, careful not to let their hands even ghost over Thomas’ body, lets out one last sigh and leaves. They leave the door open a crack, likely so they can listen for him, but they leave him alone. Thomas finally feels a weight lift off his shoulders in the silence.

In the silence there is nothing, not even flames. There is nothing but Thomas and the slowly unclenching ball in his chest and gut. The covers are pulled up to his cheeks and he lies perfectly still.

The silence does not last long as voices start to drift in from the outside. With the door open, Thomas can hear into the living room easily, so when Lafayette speaks he doesn’t have to strain to hear.

“Tell me you didn’t do what I _think_ you did that set him off,” Lafayette says.

“I don’t know, what do you think I did?” Alexander asks. There’s an edge of fear in his voice and it makes Thomas’ skin prickle.

“You tried to sleep with him didn’t you?” Lafayette accuses. The silence is all they must need because they’re the next one to speak again. “Alexander are you fucking insane?”

“I thought -”

“You ‘thought’ something?” Lafayette asks mockingly. “That’s a shock because I didn’t think you ‘thought’ at all! Why don’t you try and ‘think’ again and tell me if you think Thomas is anywhere near the right mental state to be having sex? To even _consent_?”

“It was supposed to fix him,” Alexander grumbles. Lafayette makes a shocked noise halfway between a gasp and an actual yelp.

“ _Sex_ was supposed to _fix him_?” Lafayette repeats. “Don’t you realize how stupid and dangerous and vile that sounds?”

“Well goddamn it Laf I’m getting desperate!” Alexander admits. “Nothing any of us have done has helped him in any way -”

“Who took him out _killing_?” Lafayette hisses.

“I know!” Alexander exclaims. “Don’t you think I don’t know that I helped fuck him up even more? I shouldn’t have let him come with me. There, are you happy now that I’ve said it?”

Thomas curls even further in on himself, one hand reaching up to press the pillow over his ears to try and block out the sounds. It doesn’t work. He wonders if perhaps he could smother himself in his own pillow.

“So if you _know_ he’s messed up, _why_ would you even think about touching him at all, let alone trying to touch him like that?”

“Because I just want him back okay?” Alexander says, finally breaking. “Because I just want my Thomas back. Because he won’t sleep and he won’t eat. Because when I talk to him he just goes along with what I say. Because I want him to scoff and laugh and tease me again.  Because I miss the way he used to look at me. Because the man in that room isn’t my Thomas and I want him gone and my Thomas back.

“Because I thought that if maybe, _maybe,_ I reminded him what it was like back in that hotel room up north he’d come back. Maybe if I showed him that I’m alive and I still love him and I still want him he’d come back. Maybe if I let him have me again he’d come back. Because nothing else is working. Because nothing you or I say or do brings him back. We keep trying to fix him but he’s still broken and… and he’s all I’ve got left. You and Thomas. That’s it.

Everyone else is dead, Laf. John, Washington, Philip, Herc and everyone else. The Sons was the best thing I ever had and it’s gone.  I’ve lost my son, my boss, my best friend, the closest thing I’ve ever had to family. It’s just you, me and Thomas left, and Thomas is... I can’t lose him either and if he never comes back I’ve _already_ lost him and.… _goddamn it!_ ” Alexander’s voice ends in a shout, echoing through the how.

There’s another moment of silence, then Lafayette speaks again. “When I told Agent Madison that Thomas died the other night I meant it.”

“What do you mean?” Alexander asks.

“I mean… Thomas might still be living and breathing but on the inside he’s dead. When he first broke down I thought maybe if he saw you and given some time he’d be alright but… with what’s happened with Eacker and Theodosia… and you’re right he’s still broken. In fact he’s only gotten worse. I don’t remember him speaking at all yesterday. I’m sorry Alex but… but I don’t -”

“Don’t say it,” Alexander interrupts but Lafayette takes a breath and keeps going.

“I don’t think your Thomas is ever coming back.”

“Fuck you,” Alexander spits.

“He still loves you and he still needs you and if you love him you’re going to be here even if he _doesn’t_ come back,” Lafayette says. “And if he somehow does come back it’s going to take a very very long time and you have to be prepared never to get him back ever.”

Thomas can hear something thud against the wall, something shatters, and Alexander hisses something that sounds like a string of curses. There’s a moment of silence, then when Alexander speaks his words are quiet but clear. “...Is it my fault?” Alexander asks. “Is it my fault Thomas is so broken?” There’s a beat of silence, then: “Lafayette, tell me, is it my fault?”

“Alexander…” Lafayette trails, and Alexander lets out an empty laugh.

“God, what have I done?” Alexander asks. “It can’t be my fault can it? I… all I did was love him. I never meant for this to happen. None of it. I never even intended to love him but goddamn it, I do. I love him. And he loved me too, I think. He never told me because I wouldn’t let him. The one time he tried I stopped him. I didn’t want it during sex incase he didn’t mean it so I stopped him and he only said it when he thought I was dead.

And now? Now he’s broken I don’t know if he loves me the way he thinks he does. And I love him but I’m tired and I want the old him back and… and I don’t know what to _do_ anymore.”

When Alexander finishes his voice is so pathetic sounding and sad Thomas can’t help but feel his heart break. Thomas thinks maybe he could try and smother himself. Can’t hurt to try. If it doesn’t work there’s a window just there.

But when Thomas is on his feet he finds himself at the hallway door leading to the living room. Alexander is holding one arm with the other, pressing down where dark red wells up on his skin. He’s standing by the wall, at his feet are glass shards, and Lafayette is pulling out a first aid kit from a kitchen cupboard.

“Alexan -”

“It’s not your fault,” Thomas says. Alexander’s eyes snap up in shock.

“You heard all that?” he asks, something akin to fear glimmering in his eyes. Thomas nods.

“I might be broken but I’m deaf,” Thomas says. Alexander’s mouth drops open, guilt flashing across his face. He takes a breath to speak but Thomas talks first. “No, no it’s okay. I know I… I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m… broken. I’m not the same man from before but… I want to get better. Because I do love you and I want all this to stop.”

Thomas holds himself, his fingers digging into his sides. “But it’s not your fault I’m like this. It’s mine. Everything that happened is my fault and not yours and I might deserve this but I want to get better and _be_ better because I love you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Alexander says. “It’s far from your fault and you don’t deserve this -” but Thomas is already shaking his head.

“No, it is, and I do. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. Don’t blame yourself, please, don’t. Blame me all you want but don’t blame yourself. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Alexander insists. “It’s mine.”

“Don’t say that, it’s mine and I deserve all this pain-”

“No! Don’t you fucking say that!” Alexander snaps, and Thomas flinches back. Instantly guilt floods Alexander’s face which makes Thomas’ own heart clench. “I shouldn’t have - I didn’t -” Alexander stutters and stumbles over his words.

“Thomas, maybe you should go back to bed,” Lafayette interrupts, coming to stand between them.

“It’s not Alexander’s fault,” Thomas says again. Alexander tries to speak but Thomas can’t hear what he says as Lafayette speaks louder.

“You shouldn’t be up and about. Come, lay down, it’s almost time for bed anyway.” Without laying a hand on Thomas, Lafayette tries to usher Thomas back into the guest bedroom. But Thomas keeps his feet planted in place and Lafayette doesn’t dare touch him.

“Alexander -”

“Go to bed Thomas,” Alexander says, his voice suddenly quiet.

“It’s not -”

“Please just go to bed,” Alexander says, looking down and away from Thomas. Thomas’ veins run cold, and he dumbly nods. This time, when Lafayette motions towards the bedroom Thomas goes. He doesn’t wait for Lafayette to say anything about the bed before he climbs into bed. He pulls the covers up to his head, turns his back as Lafayette turns and tells Burr to watch Alexander.

Lafayette swings the door shut behind them and carefully perch on the edge of the bed, leaving a large space between them and Thomas. “I'm sorry we kept you up,” Lafayette says. “Did you want to sleep?” All Thomas does is shrug. The words are in his head, he _could_ speak, but he prefers the silence. There’s nothing for him to say anyway.

“Well, I think you need to sleep.” Lafayette shifts in place, eyes on Thomas and Thomas feels like Laf’s gaze bores right into him. Lafayette was always too perceptive, too smart for this. Thomas hikes the covers just a bit higher.

“Okay, just go to bed and -” Lafayette cuts off as the sound of the front door opening and shutting again drifts in from the main room. It takes Thomas all of two seconds to understand the implications of the noise, and he’s sitting up in bed before he can really think.

“Hey, hey now,” Lafayette says quickly, hands raised, palms towards Thomas, still not touching him. “Lie back down, it's okay.”

“The door opened,” Thomas says, possibilities running through his head. “There could be danger.”

“It's okay, everyone’s safe,” Lafayette says, but Thomas shakes his head.

“The door opened and shut and I can't see Alexander or hear him and I’ve gotta - I have to -”

“It's okay Thomas,” Lafayette interrupts, speaking to be heard over Thomas’ rapidly accelerating breath. “Alexander wouldn't leave, they wouldn't let anyone in. It's Burr taking the trash out or something. We did break a few plates.”

“I have to go check,” Thomas insists, reaching for the covers to throw them back. Lafayette plants their hand on the bed to keep the sheets in place.

“You need to lie down,” Lafayette insists. “You were practically just assaulted, you need to stay here.”

“But Alexander-”

“But he's still here, I'm sure.” Lafayette smiles gently before turning to the door. “Alexander, would you come here for a moment?” They call, and Thomas holds his breath as slow footsteps approach. The door creaks open, and when Burr’s head pokes through the opening, Thomas’ heart stops.

“Alexander’s gone,” Burr says simply, face impassive and uncaring, even as Lafayette whirls on him and stands.

“I told you to watch him!” Lafayette snaps. Burr shrugs.

“I watched him walk to the door, open it, walk through it and then leave.”

Lafayette’s response is lost as Thomas speaks. “You just let him leave?” He asks, voice hollow. Burr slides the rest of the way in the room, arms crossed over his chest. “You let him leave when you know that King and Tallmadge and James are all out there somewhere looking for him?”

Burr shrugs. “Not my place to stop him.”

Thomas works the comforter between his fingers. “He could be in danger and you let him walk into it?”

“He’s just gone to blow off steam, he’ll be back,” Burr says, but Thomas is already climbing out of bed. His heart is pounding in his ears as he stands, hands curled into fists.

“You let him leave,” Thomas repeats, almost snarling. Burr’s face stays impassive, like he’s made of stone.

“What does it matter to you?” Burr asks. “Half the time you’re trying to leave, the other half you’re crying in bed.” Thomas’ feels his eyes widen, nostrils flare as he tries to breath.

“Burr -” Lafayette tries to but in but Thomas is already striding across the room towards him. Burr cocks his head up, as if daring Thomas to punch him in the jaw. There’s a subdued fire in Burr’s eyes even as Thomas gets in his space.

“Fuck you,” Thomas spits. “I love him.”

“You love him? You do nothing but drag him down,” Burr responds. Thomas’ body is moving without thought, one hand rising to strike Burr -

Two arms snake around Thomas’ chest, hooking under his arms and holding Thomas in place. Lafayette grabs onto the back of Thomas’ neck, putting him in a full nelson and trying to pull him back at the same time. “Thomas, stop,” Lafayette commands.

“Let me go,” Thomas snaps back. “If Alexander gets hurt its his fault.”

“Hitting him won’t solve anything!”

“Oh come on,” Burr jeers. “Not like he’d actually go through with it.” Thomas’ blood sings in his veins as he glares at Burr. “He’s fucking weak. Didn’t even lose his ‘loved one’ and here he is, a complete spineless mess.”

“Burr, you need to be quiet,” Lafayette grunts, holding onto Thomas even as the he squirms, kicking at Lafayette’s legs to be set free.

“Why? You coddle him to no end,” Burr says. “He needs someone to tell him what’s what. Let him go.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Thomas says. “If Alexander -”

“‘Alexander this’ and ‘Alexander that,’” Burr says. “Grow up. You still have him, stop acting like a complete coward and actually do something. If Lafayette let you go you’d never hit me.”

“Wanna bet?” Thomas asks.

“You’ve never had the guts,” Burr says. “You wouldn’t hurt me. And if it came down to it, you’d be too chickenshit to help Alexander either.”

Thomas sees red. His instincts kick in, old training flooding back to him and he relaxes his shoulders and arms. In a swift move, Thomas manages to slide down and out of Lafayette’s grip, throwing his elbow into their stomach for insurance before launching himself at Burr.

Burr is ready, even as Thomas’ arms close around his middle and they go tumbling to the ground. Burr struggles, swings, kicks, fights dirty as Thomas does his best to pin Burr to the floor. Thomas bears blows to his stomach, his cheek, even to the side of his neck as he manages to straddle Burr.

“ _Fuck_ -” Thomas punches Burr in the jaw - “ _off-_ ” a blow to the other cheek - “ _with_ -” he clips Burr’s nose with his third swing - “ _your_ -” Burr manages to grab at Thomas’ face, holding him as far back as possible even as Thomas still slaps him across the face - “ _bullshit -_ ” Burr gets his other hand in position to swing, giving Thomas a return blow across the face.

Pain blossoms across Thomas’ jaw as two other hands grab at his shoulders and arms. Lafayette hauls Thomas off Burr, and Thomas hisses as Lafayette is forced to grab him by the hair to get him to come off. Burr follows, socking Thomas in the gut as he struggles to free himself from Lafayette’s hold.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Lafayette shouts, but neither Burr or Thomas listen. Burr rains blow after blow on Thomas, Thomas trying to return the favor with wild kicks and what blows he can land with the arm not being held by Lafayette.

“He needs a good beating!” Burr counters. “Maybe he’ll fucking come to his senses.”

“You piece of shit!” Thomas shouts back, his free hand pulling and pressing on Lafayette’s wrist to get him to let go of his hair. For a moment, Thomas thinks he’s done it as Lafayette’s grip disappears, but then Lafayette just throws themself between the two angry men.

“This isn’t solving anything!” Lafayette says, still holding one of Thomas’ arms while trying to press Burr back. Burr doesn’t care, mimicking Thomas’ strategy of knocking the wind of out Lafayette with a well-placed knee. In the split second opening he gets, Burr grabs Thomas by the front and manages to get him on the ground.

And Thomas finds their earlier positions reversed. He’s got one hand pushing on Burr’s face to hold him back as Burr lands blow after blow on his body. Thomas grabs one of Burr’s arms, trying to pull him off balance but Burr doesn’t budge.

Lafayette returns to the fray, one hand on Thomas’ shoulder as they try to leverage Burr off. Everyone’s shouting curses or demands and tears spring to Thomas’ eyes as one of Burr’s blows connects with one eye.

And then the door opens again, and another voice joins the cacophony. “What the fuck is going on?!” Alexander shouts, and suddenly everything stills. A moment later Burr is pulled off Thomas’ body by Alexander and Lafayette stands, letting Alexander get into where Thomas is left prone on the floor.

“What the fuck were you two doing?” Alexander asks, picking Thomas up into a sitting position. Burr, sat on the floor some distance away, blood dripping from his nose, simply twists his lips in a harsh frown.

“I was trying to stop it!” Lafayette protests. Alexander shoots them a look.

“You did a real good job then,” Alexander snaps, but then his attention is back on Thomas. “Are you okay?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Burr growls, but Alexander ignores him. His eyes scan Thomas for injuries. Thomas can feel where his face is rapidly swelling and bruising, but he just grabs onto the front of Alexander’s shirt. Thomas’ next words are covered by Burr’s sudden scoff.

“This is what I’m talking about!” Burr says. “You two treat Jefferson like a _baby_ while he does nothing but hold us all back.”

“What would you have me do?” Alexander snaps. Burr’s eyes glitter.

“Open your damn eyes maybe?” Burr responds. Alexander snaps his head to look at him.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Alexander demands, voice rising. _Alexander is angry,_ Thomas thinks, his mind scattered in a thousand directions. Thomas’ grip on Alexander’s shirt tightens.

“I'm sorry, I’m sorry,” Thomas babbles, the only thought in his head to placate Alexander. Alexander’s angry and must be angry at him. “I'm sorry, I started it and I’m sorry. I shouldn't have listened to what Burr was saying, I'm sorry, I’m sorry.”

But that only seems to make Alexander even angrier. His eyes glimmer, one hand comes up to work Thomas’ hand from his shirt.

“You motherfucker,” Alexander hisses, and he leaps at Burr. Burr jumps back, arms up in defense, but Lafayette is faster than both of them. They jump between the men and grabs Alexander, holding him back.

“Alex-”

“You're fucking dead, do you hear me?!” Alexander shouts at Burr, scrambling against Lafayette’s hold. “You're dead for touching him, you're _dead_ -”

Thomas whimpers. Alexander wants him head. He wants Thomas dead and Thomas should just give him what he wants -

Alexander breaks free from Lafayette’s arms and manages to land one solid punch on Burr. Alexander is small though, and Lafayette manages to throw him off and back towards Thomas like Alexander was no more than a balloon.

“Alexander!” Lafayette snaps, but Alexander is seething.

“Get out of here,” Alexander snaps, glaring at Burr. “Get the fuck out of here and away from him.”

Burr sneers, opens his mouth but Lafayette claps their hands on his shoulders and shoves him out of the bedroom. The moment the door is shut, Alexander spins and is at Thomas’ side on the floor in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas repeats, already braced for Alexander’s blows. “I’m sorry I hurt you and I’m sorry I left and I’m sorry -”

“Thomas, shhh, did they hurt you?” Alexander whispers, his hands coming up but then stopping in midair. He’s being so careful not to touch Thomas as he looks for wounds, but Thomas misses the feel of his body, if not the fire and heat.

“You can’t leave like that,” Thomas says. “You can’t leave me.” Alexander blinks, guilt flashing across his face.

“I had to get out, go… figure some things out,” Alexander says. Thomas frowns. _Figure some things out._ Figure out what to do with Thomas. Thomas, who won’t let Alexander touch him, won’t stop messing up.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says. “I’m sorry, the fight was my fault, I’m sorry,” Alexander frowns.

“It’s not,” Alexander murmurs back.

“I’m so sorry I keep fucking up and that I’m fucked up,” Thomas says. “It’s all my fault, everything, and I can’t stop making mistakes.”

“It’s not your fault, none of it,” Alexander says. “It’s King’s and it’s Burr’s and it’s mine but it’s not yours. You were doing your best.” Thomas shakes his head, the injury-born tears starting to turn regretful.

“I fucked up and got everyone killed and I keep hurting you,” Thomas insists, starting to blubber. “I can’t stop because it all hurts and I can’t - I can’t -”

“Shhhhh,” Alexander coos. “I know, I know it hurts. I yelled at you and that was wrong. You didn’t do anything baby.”

“I did!” Thomas insists. “I did it all and I wouldn’t even let you have me.”

Guilt flashes across Alexander’s face. “No, no, no,” he says. “Don’t you worry about that, that wasn’t the best thing for me to ask of you.”

Thomas tries to breathe through his tears, tries to steady himself. “I… I just want this all to be over and I want you back and I love you. And I’m sorry.”

And damn if Alexander’s face doesn’t crumple in a way that makes Thomas’ heart break into a thousand pieces. _Oh God I’ve done it again,_ Thomas thinks. _I’ve hurt him again. I need to stop talking, need to go away, need to stop breathing -_

Alexander’s hands are suddenly on his. “Don’t you say that,” Alexander says. “I need you here.” Thomas winces as he realizes he’s spoken aloud. Thomas looks down at where Alexander is covering his own hand, and Alexander winces, realizing what he’s done. He goes to take his hands away, but Thomas shakes his head.

“Please,” is all Thomas says, and Alexander slowly puts his hands back on Thomas’.

“I love you and want you back too,” Alexander says.

“You have me if you want me,” Thomas whispers back, and Alexander gives him a sad look.

“I want you and I want you to be okay again,” Alexander clarifies.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying,” Thomas says.

“I’m sure you are,” Alexander says, sadness in his voice. Then he shuts his eyes with a sigh. “No, I _know_ you’re trying.”

“I’m so -”

“No, I’m sorry,” Alexander cuts in. He looks up at Thomas and Thomas can’t quite wrap his head around those words coming from Alexander’s mouth.

“You don’t -”

“I’m sorry for leaving, but I…” Alexander trails. It’s like the words are hard for him to form. The apology sounds unnatural with his voice. “I had to get out of here for a moment. I had- I had to get away from you.”

Thomas’ heart clenches, a prickling chill picking up through his body. Alexander takes a breath. “I couldn’t stand to be there anymore because it hurts because it’s you but it’s not you and I… goddamnit.” Alexander shuts his eyes for a moment, thinks, and then opens them when he begins to speak again.

“It’s kind of like how even though you know I’m still alive you kinda freak a little bit if I’m not around. I can see you, you’re still here and alive but you’re gone. I lost you too. I thought I lost you when Madison said you left and sure it’s not the same as thinking you were dead or anything, but you were still gone. And then I got you back, but I was so angry over this lie I was given I didn’t understand that you... you’re still gone.”

Alexander’s voice is so quiet. “You’re still gone, and it hurts so fucking bad and I just want you back. I want it to go back to what it was like in the hotel. Hell, I’ll go back to when I wanted to punch your fucking face in because then it was still you and I just want _you_.” Alexander takes another breath. “But then I realized just a minute ago that maybe things _can’t_ go back to how it was. Too much has happened and maybe we can’t go back and maybe it’s too late for that.”

The chill in Thomas’ body turns colder. His heart thumps in his chest and _oh god Alexander is leaving,_ and _he doesn’t love me,_ and _I’m too broken for him to love and_ -

Alexander gently squeezes Thomas’ hands to get his attention back before saying: “But the other thing I realized was that maybe that’s okay.” Thomas hesitates, looking up at Alexander curiously. “That both of us are going to come out of all this hell as different people than we were before and that’s alright. That’s how life _works_. I still - I still want you back but I’m here for the you I’ve got too, and I still want whatever you I can have. You’re not the Thomas from before and that’s not… not bad per se, just different. And I just need some time to get used to that but once we’re out of New York we’ll have all the time in the world and _I still love you_.”

Thomas has to take a long moment to understand what Alexander’s saying, but when he does the panic starts to go away but in its place is just a sadness. “I’m still here,” Thomas says. “I’m trying to fix myself.”

Alexander nods. “And that’s good. I’m going to hold out hope that you do. But if you can’t fix yourself completely, I’ll… it’ll be alright. I’ll still be here. I still want us, no matter how long it takes to get the the old Thomas back or not.”

Thomas takes a shuddering breath. “I just want this over with.” He looks up at Alexander, feeling tears start to prick at Thomas’ eyes. He looks over at where Alexander is still holding his hands, the way his arms are splayed, and Thomas wants nothing but to be there again.

So Thomas scoots closer to him, carefully laying his head on Alexander’s chest. He can feel Alexander take a sharp breath, but then forces himself to relax.  “I want this all over too,” Alexander says, “Once we get Teddy back we’ll go. We’ll go just like you wanted to back at the hotel. We’ll go and live a good life, away from all this shit.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Alexander hums. Thomas can feel his chest rumble with the words, feel his heartbeat beneath his skin. Alexander is here. He’s alive. He’s _Thomas’_ still. Even after is all Thomas has done, Alexander still loves him.

It’s enough to make Thomas cry, descending into sobs as he collapses into Alexander’s arms. Alexander lays his head on top of Thomas’, whispering about what it will be like when they’re away from the city, when they’re together finally.

“We’ll have the most beautiful cabin somewhere, with flower gardens and nothing but country for miles. Empty space for us. Maybe some dogs. A dog would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Alexander murmurs. Thomas nods, crying into Alexander’s shirt.

“I’m sorry, I love you.”

“I love you too, don’t apologize,” Alexander says. “We’ll go somewhere where we can forget everything. Where you can get better and we can be happy.”

“I’m sorry I love you,” Thomas repeats. Alexander’s breath catches.

“Never apologize for loving me, because then I’d have to apologize for loving you and I don’t want to do that,” Alexander says. Thomas takes a shuddering breath, feeling one of Alexander’s hands run up and down his back.

“Can we get a Briard?” Thomas asks, voice thick. Alexander hums in confusion and Thomas repeats the question. “They’re a type of dog. Had one in France.”

“Of course, baby,” Alexander says. “We’ll get three if you want. We’ll get some Briards and let them run around the yard and take them on walks through the woods.” Alexander’s soft voice drones on and on, wrapping Thomas in warm familiarity.

Thomas isn’t home, he’s standing in the ashes of what was once his home, but Alexander is standing there with him, making plans on how to clear it out and rebuild the walls.

\--------------

When Lafayette finally thinks it’s safe to poke his head into the guest bedroom, he finds Thomas and Alexander asleep, curled around each other. They’ve managed to fall asleep on the floor, Alexander’s arms wrapped protectively around the taller man, Thomas’ face buried in Alexander’s chest.

Lafayette lets out a quiet breath, pulls the comforter down off the bed as silently as possible, and drapes it over the two. They’re not so optimistic or deluded enough to think that when Thomas and Alexander wake up, it will be perfectly okay and that Thomas will be back on his feet and Alexander will stop being such an impulsive idiot. They do hope, at least, Alexander understands the situation now, that Thomas can finally put his trust in Alexander again, or at the very least _something_ has changed for the better.

They shut the door, making sure to keep the doorknob turned so as not to make noise, and walk back out into the living room. Burr is sat on the couch, a bag of ice on held against his nose. Lafayette frowns at the back of his head.

“They’re asleep,” Lafayette announces softly, their voice hard and still slightly bitter. Burr doesn’t react. “Do you finally want to talk the bullshit you just pulled _now_?” For a moment, Lafayette thinks Burr is going to stick to the maddening silence he’d been sitting in since the fight. They let out a breath, turn to go get their phone and -

“You can’t not see it,” Burr says suddenly. “You can’t possibly think that Jefferson is an asset to us.” Lafayette pauses, and Burr must find his answer in their silence. “He’s going to hold us back. He’s a liability.”

“We can’t just leave him,” Lafayette says. “He’d die.”

“And?” Burr asks. “Why not put the man out of his misery? We’d at least get a good night’s sleep. Don’t tell me all his thrashing and pleading doesn’t keep you up at night.”

“Alexander would be livid.”

“He’d get over it,” Burr says. “Once we’re out and living somewhere safe, he’ll go and ‘fall in love’ -” Burr curls his fingers in air quotes- “with the first person who poses a danger to our safety. That’s how he works. Jefferson is just the last in a long line and you know it.”

“I believe in them,” Lafayette says. “Thomas loves him just as much -”

Burr scoffs. “Sure, he does.” Lafayette’s eyes narrow, they come around the couch to look at Burr.

“What do you mean by that?”

Burr shrugs. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see love in that.” Burr points towards the hallway with his free hand. “I see an impulsive man with an addiction to danger and drama with a mentally destroyed man dependent on the other for his very sanity. They think they’re in love. They think they _have_ to be. If they’re not, what else was all the death and sacrifice for?”

“Then how do you explain everything before?” Lafayette asks. “You must have seen it between them before. Why would they run away together?”

“Simple. Alexander loves the thrill. Jefferson loves the drama. That’s what they thrive on.” Burr looks up at Lafayette around the ice pack. “Don’t tell me you think that what they’ve got is healthy.”

“I believe in them,” Lafayette repeats. Burr’s gaze hardens, and he sits back into the couch.

“Then you’re just as deluded as them.” Burr grabs the tv remote and turn it on, leaving the volume low as he types in the channel for the local news. His eyes become glued to the television screen, watching around Lafayette with the ice still pressed to his nose.

Lafayette has a thousand things to say, or so they think. They feel like they want to argue, that they want to pull out a thousand examples proving Burr wrong but when they reflect on it, they’re struck by the fact that it’s only been a month since Thomas came walking into their lives.

So much has changed, the weight of it all threatening to fall on Lafayette’s shoulders and crush them. So they slide out of Burr’s way, quietly announce that they’re going to bed and grab their phone from the table. They shoot off a text to Angelica telling her that they’re going to have to start working again in the morning.

When they climb into bed, Lafayette can’t help but feel the empty expanse of their bed even more sharply than usual. The image of Thomas and Alexander sleeping peacefully together tugs at their heart. _They_ must _be in love,_ they think. _They must be_.

They gather a bunch of the loose empty sheets and hold the bundle to their chest. It’s an awful simulacrum of their beautiful John, but it’s all they can do. No warmth exudes from it, it’s much too soft and shapeless. Still they shut their eyes and can remember the way John’s hair smelled and felt pressed up against their face.

“I love you,” they mutter to the lump, to John, pretending that they really had said it even once before. They had so many chances, so many times before or after Lafayette had felt their body sing in time with John’s, so many times they curled up together under the veil of friends with nothing but physical needs.

If the love Lafayette still harbors deep in their chest is the same love Alexander and Thomas feel, then Lafayette will go to the ends of the damn earth to make sure they don’t lose it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casual reminder that Burr is going through some shit here too and he could probably use some help. x2 reminder for Lafayette.
> 
> ALSO the guest that picked out the whole "Thomas is metaphorically dead" thing before I could say it fuck you but also I love you.
> 
> EDIT BECAUSE I FORGOT THE DAMN HISTORICAL NOTE:
> 
> Thomas Jefferson actually did own Briards in France and they were the only dogs he liked okay that's all I have to say bye.
> 
> See you Friday!


	63. Would You Believe Me If I Told You Upfront I Have Actually Brought You Some Fluff?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When have I ever lied to you?

Thomas wakes up in Alexander’s arms the next morning, the other man still deep asleep, and for the first time Thomas doesn’t feel the overriding need to buck off the contact and escape. He stays calm, languid, not quite fully awake.

He feels so calm, the world around them serene and the way the morning light falls across the comforter Thomas feels that they’re still in their little hotel room. Just the two of them, tucked away from the world.

Everything awful floating hazily in the back of his mind must have been a nightmare. It had to have been. Even now it starts to fade away as Thomas traces the lines on Alexander’s face. Everything’s okay, everything’s just okay.

One hand slides to hold Alexander’s hand and the other reaches up to brush a stray strand of hair away from Alexander’s face. The man’s skin is soft beneath his fingertips, and the gentle motion must be enough to rouse Alexander from sleep.

Alexander groans slightly, his eyes cracking open. The fog of sleep in them dissipates the moment Alexander looks up to find Thomas watching him. A look of surprise flits across his face, and Alexander’s eyes dart down to where their hands are intertwined. Thomas pushes his hand back through Alexander’s hair as Alexander looks up with such palpable relief. Alexander scoots forward, his head curling into Thomas’ chest and free hand going up to wrap around Thomas -

And then Alexander freezes. He stops completely still, and Thomas thinks that he’s not even breathing. Thomas frowns in concern as Alexander hesitantly looks up, the relief gone and replaced with fear.

“I- I shouldn’t have moved without -” Alexander swallows, lets out a breath. “Is it cool if I…” To Thomas’ confused expression, Alexander taps his side where his arm would be if he hadn’t stopped.

Thomas’ brows furrow. “Of course it would be, why wouldn’t it -”

Thomas stops, realization flooding him as the fading, hazy dream memories come roaring back and solidifying into the real memories that they are. The bloody nightmare returns to reality and Thomas stiffens. They’re not in a hotel. They’re not safe. They’re hidden away only in Lafayette’s spare bedroom, the world and all it entails is just outside that door.

Thomas shrinks, all sense of peace fleeing his body. He pulls away, the hand by Alexander’s face curling into Thomas’ chest as he feels his heartbeat pick up. They’re both lying stock still beside each other on the floor.

Alexander goes to pull his hand away and suddenly Thomas is struck with a mixture of fear and longing. He quickly grabs onto Alexander’s hand and squeezes it tight. It’s so warm in his grip, Alexander’s thin, calloused fingers fit just right in his hand. And Alexander is _right there_ and he’s alive and warm and so close.

Alexander looks at him hesitantly, waiting. Thomas takes a deep breath and finds the air thick with the smell of Alexander that he’s missed so much and when he lets out the breath he’s just the tiniest bit relaxed. The tension in his muscles fades slightly and he forces his instinct to run away down and out of his mind.

He wants this. He promised he’d get better and he wants his Alexander.

So he uncurls his shaking arm and lays it back down across Alexander’s shoulders, threading his fingers carefully through Alexander’s dark hair. Alexander’s eyes glitter with restrained hope as Thomas takes one last breath.

“It’s cool,” he says. “Stay.”

Alexander smiles, and while he moves slowly Thomas can see where he’s restraining himself from moving too quickly as he lays his head on Thomas’ shoulder. “Good,” Alexander says. “I missed my pillow.”

And Thomas almost laughs at that. Having Alexander’s head pressed into his body is so wonderful, he’s warmed both on the inside and out. There are alarm bells ringing in his head, but this feels just right enough to keep Thomas from moving.

Alexander is alive and okay and falling asleep on his shoulder. Alexander’s breathing evens out as Thomas holds him as close to his body as he can. The contact feels… not good, but okay. It’s alright.

Everything is alright. Thomas is home. Even just for the moment, Thomas is home and everything is alright.

Thomas slowly starts to card his hand through Alexander's hair. It starts off subconsciously as Thomas forces himself to focus on the present moment but then Alexander’s hair is so soft and real Thomas’ entire attention is drawn to it. Alexander’s already asleep but it does wonders to keep Thomas centered.

And then Thomas’ fingers get caught on a small tangle and accidentally pull at the strands before he manages to get it free. It must have only been the slightest tug, but still something rumbles in Alexander’s chest and the quietest of moans, strangled sounding, comes from Alexander’s parted lips.

Thomas freezes the same moment Alexander opens his eyes. There’s a bright red flush on Alexander’s face as Thomas feels his own start to heat up. The alarm bells are a bit louder now as Alexander tears himself from Thomas’ arms. “I- I didn’t mean for… for that,” Alexander says. Thomas’ heart clenches, and he nods, sitting up himself

“Sorry, your hair got a bit tangled,” Thomas offers, quietly, flustered himself. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Alexander shakes his head violently, “I wasn’t asleep, just trying to, and I - it’s cool, you didn’t mean to -”

“No, I didn’t, I’m sorry,” Thomas says. The air is a thick between them, though not the heavy tension Thomas is used too, more the old tension from a half-forgotten twister game. Just as Thomas is about to apologize again, Alexander sighs and looks at him.

“Can I just go back to using you as my pillow?” He asks, and Thomas nods. Soon they’re back down on the floor, Alexander tucked against Thomas’ side, Thomas holding him close. He doesn’t touch Alexander’s hair, but they lie there for a minute and they’re both relaxed again.

Then Alexander moves to look up at Thomas, opens his mouth to say something, then hesitates. Thomas raises his eyebrows, silently asking him to speak, and Alexander commits.

“Can I kiss you?” Alexander asks. Thomas sucks in a harsh breath, insides turning back into led but then Alexander grabs onto the front of Thomas shirt. Without breaking eye contact, Alexander says: “It doesn’t have to be much, just a little peck.”

And something about that strikes a deep chord in Thomas, awakens a part of him that’s been dormant for what feels like forever. Thomas rolls his eyes, his stomach unclenching as he responds: quietly “It is never ‘just a peck’ with you.”

Alexander’s eyes light up spectacularly. His hand clenches in excitement, tangling Thomas’ shirt and pulling it. And then his face falls into an exaggerated pout, as if put out by Thomas’ statement. “That’s not true,” Alexander protests. “Name _one_ time I asked you for a peck and it wasn’t just a peck.”

The chord inside Thomas thrums, his mind completely clear for once as he smirks. “Every single time you asked for a peck it wasn’t just a peck.”

“Bullshit.”

“Then we have extremely differing accounts of events back in the hotel upstate.”

Alexander dramatically huffs, sitting up and crossing his arms. “I feel attacked,” he proclaims. Thomas props himself up on his arms and smiles gently up at Alexander. The way his nose is scrunched is adorable. Alexander’s eyes dance as his eyes look down at Thomas’ mouth, and then he takes a breath. “I seem to never remember you _ever_ protesting against it once and your accusations are unfair and a bad representation of my character!”

“Your character?” Thomas asks, the slightest twinge of laughter in his voice.

“Yes! My character! I am not this horny little mix you are insinuating I am!” Alexander insists. “All I ever did was kiss my man to show him in a loving manner that I care for him.”

Thomas actually laughs at that, the sound and sensation strange to even himself. “There are other ways to do that other than kissing,” he points out.

“Well, _sure,_ ” Alexander says, “But kissing is more fun.” Alexander cocks an eyebrow. “And, as I recall, I’d kiss you and _you_ would be the one to take it further. So who’s really to blame? Hm?”

The word ‘blame’ scrapes on Thomas’ ears but he’s in the moment, it doesn’t even phase him. “So, it’s my fault now,” he deadpans. Alexander nods vigorously.

“Yes! Yes, it is. I mean, how was _I_ supposed to resist those pretty brown eyes and your nice strong muscles and just… your general broody good looks? I’d almost say you deliberately used them against me! I’m the real victim here!”

Once again, Thomas chuckles, rolling his eyes. He finally sits up even with Alexander. “Oh yeah, you’re the victim. Who was it again who would climb onto me every chance they got?” Alexander pouts in silence, his lips puckered. Thomas leans forward and taps Alexander on the nose. “Mhmmm, exactly.”

Alexander lets out a noise of frustration. “Okay, but in my defense you’re super climbable in both a sexually metaphoric and literal way. I can’t be held accountable.”

Alexander’s face is alight in mirth, his eyes dancing in a joy Thomas hasn’t seen since they left the hotel. His hair hangs around his face and the light on the window lights up his features in just the best way. He’s still pouting, his arms crossed, and Thomas is reminded of just how cute and handsome and _perfect_ Alexander is. Thomas can’t resist leaning over and pecking the shortest, lightest kiss on those pouting lips.

Alexander starts, completely shocked by Thomas’ bold move. Thomas pulls back and for a fraction of a second he sees the surprise tinged with fear in Alexander’s eyes, but then it’s like a curtain is pulled down and an indignant expression falls into place.

“That’s not fair,” Alexander whines. “I asked to kiss you, not for you to kiss me.”

Thomas shrugs, looping his arms around Alexander’s waist. “It was still a kiss.” Thomas smiles down at Alexander, now just a few inches away as he hold him gently. The snap of relief on Alexander’s face is quickly covered up again as Alexander leans back, but not enough to break Thomas’ hold.

“The deal was that I would kiss you, not the other way around.”

Thomas scrunches up his face. “What deal? I don’t remember a deal.” But Alexander just shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter. The judges say I get a redo.”

“What judges?!” Thomas asks. Alexander cocks an eyebrow.

“The ones I invented just now specifically so they could rule your kiss a wrongful motion,”

“A wrongful motion,” Thomas drawls. Alexander pouts again.

“Or whatever fancy court lingo you wanna use, I’m not a lawyer.” Thomas chuckles.

“Could have fooled me,” he says.

“Shut up,” Alexander protests. “Don’t make me use my secret weapon Thomas. I will get my kiss.”

“There’s nothing stopping you- Secret weapon?” Thomas repeats, confused for a moment but then deciding to follow Alexander down his rabbit hole a bit further.

“Yes. I have one and I _will_ use it!”

“And pray tell what is this secret weapon exactly?” Thomas asks with a smirk. Alexander responds with his own smirk, then opens his mouth.

_“Te seduciré con mi Español,_ ” Alexander says. _“Naide puede resistir mis encantos latinos._ ”

Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “A language I don’t understand?”

“ _No importa si lo entiendes, Thomas,_ ” Alexander purrs. “ _Suena sexy. Tomate. Mangera. Piña. Semáforo.”_

Thomas just rolls his eyes. “ _French might suit your needs better,_ ” he says, and Alexander’s tongue trips over his next word. “ _Considering it’s easier to talk to someone if you speak the same language._ ”

The light dusting of pink on Alexander’s face gives Thomas the motivation to keep going. “ _Did your little ‘secret weapon’ get turned around on you?_ ”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Alexander says, this time in French. Thomas laughs again. He’s enjoying himself, watching Alexander’s face turn brighter shades of red. He should have tried this back at the hotel.

_“Come,_ mon chou _, don’t get all hot and bothered over me,_ ” Thomas teases. Alexander swats him gently on the shoulder, and Thomas almost misses the brief panicked look Alexander has before it’s hidden away again.

“ _It’s not fair_ ,” Alexander mumbles. “ _I don’t sound as good as you do when I speak French._ ”

“You sound adorable,” Thomas says, switching back to English and pressing his forehead to Alexander’s.

“Yeah, okay,” Alexander says, “‘cuz that’s exactly what I want to hear you say, that I’m _adorable_.”

“Well,” Thomas says, “if not adorable, then what? Cute? Your French is cute.”

Alexander leans back, pouting again. “You’re being so mean to me and all I wanted was a kiss. And it’s not fair you got one but I didn’t,” he says, voice rising and falling dramatically. Thomas breathes a laugh.

“Fine, okay,” Thomas says, “you can kiss me.” Alexander’s eyes light up and he extracts himself from Thomas’ arms just to make sure they’re sitting up straight. He grabs Thomas’ face to hold it still and then moves around Thomas’ face, eyes squinting like they’re looking for something.

“What on earth are you doing?” Thomas asks, amusement in his voice. Alexander huffs.

“I’m trying to figure out how to make sure this is good,” he says, peering at Thomas carefully. “Now, don’t talk, I’m concentrating.”

Thomas forces down the bubble of laughter in his throat. Alexander is almost studying his face like a doctor studies his patients. Thomas opens his mouth to say something else -

Alexander crashes their faces together in what has to be the weirdest kiss Thomas has ever had. Alexander cards his hands though Thomas’ hair and just mashes their lips together messily. Alexander moves his face left and right and Thomas can’t contain himself.

Thomas breaks out into body-shaking laughter, even as a part of his brain says Alexander is a far better kisser than that, and Alexander leans back just the slightest amount.

“What?” Alexander asks, pouting again. Thomas’ stomach heaves with laughter and Alexander dramatically throws his arms across his chest again.

“What the hell was that?” Thomas asks though guffaws. Alexander’s eyes narrow.

“A kiss.”

“Darlin’, that wasn’t in the ballpark of a kiss. Come here,” Thomas says, finally managing to bring his laughter under control. Though a start-and-stop instruction that Thomas knows Alexander doesn’t need but seems stubbornly insistent on acting out, Thomas manages to guide Alexander into giving him the shortest, softest kiss Thomas has ever gotten from that man.

“There you go, you did it,” Thomas says when Alexander leans back again. “A+, you pass.”

“Shut up,” Alexander says again, but this time it’s soft and loving as he leans back into Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas moves with the weight, and they’re lying down on the floor again. Thomas knows that his back is going to hate him when he finally stands up and moves, but for now he’s content to lie with Alexander.

He runs his hand up and down Alexander’s back and for the first time realizes what Alexander did for him just now. Thomas almost feels back to normal, the shitstorm that’s been his mind recently has been buried under a blanket of contentment and love. He picks up his head ever so slightly to look down at Alexander. The other man doesn’t have his eyes closed, he’s just lying there listening to Thomas breathe.

“Thank you,” Thomas says. Alexander looks up at him and Thomas can tell Alexander knows what for, but when he opens his mouth he says:

“No, thank _you_ for the lesson.” Then Alexander pauses, his eyes shining with too many things for Thomas to parse out. “It’s what we do for each other,” he adds carefully, then Alexander settles back down onto Thomas’ chest.

They’re only silent for a moment before Alexander speaks again: “Could I have _another_ kiss?”

Thomas shoves Alexander away from him playfully, laughing the whole while. “I told you!” Alexander giggles as he lets his body roll away, one of his feet colliding with the wall, making a small _thump_.

“Okay, okay fine!” Alexander says. “I’ll quit.” He turns around to bury himself in Thomas’ waiting arms but the door opens before he gets a chance too. Both Thomas and Alexander look up to find Lafayette standing in the doorway, eyes sparkling.

“I heard a thump, wanted to make sure everything was okay,” they explain. Alexander nods, wiggling closer to Thomas. But Thomas’ eyes are glued to Lafayette. Just past them he can see into the living room. He can see the world outside this little moment.

And he’s suddenly terrified.

In just a moment it’s like reality comes crashing back down and that blanket of comfort is ripped away to reveal the festering wounds underneath. Thomas’ body chills, he feels himself still. The pressure of Alexander’s face nuzzling into his shoulder is starting to burn.

Alexander must feel the stiffness taking over Thomas’ body, he looks up at him and sadness is plastered across his face. Sadness and loss shine in Alexander’s eyes for a long moment, then a cold, steely determination replaces it.

And then Alexander slides his hand into Thomas’, and Thomas looks down at their conjoined hands, feeling his breathing start to pick up. Alexander’s other hand gently nudges his face back up until they’re looking at one another again, concern so carefully masked under a carefree expression.  Alexander sticks his tongue out at Thomas and some of the encroaching fear and hurt stills. It doesn’t go away, it hovers in the back of Thomas’ head but it doesn’t take over.

Thomas nods mutely, the last wisps of his contentment managing to stretch a smile across his face. Alexander leans up and kisses him softly one last time, then pulls away with mischief in his eyes.

“I won,” he says. Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “I got another kiss so suck it.”

Whatever normal Thomas that had awoken manages to speak one last time with: “eh, maybe later.” Alexander’s eyes go wide as Lafayette breaks out into shocked laughter. Thomas smiles at the both of them, the storm and the complacency seemingly finding a balance inside him as he sits, then stands up.

He hears Alexander sputter something behind him, Lafayette bent over laughing as Thomas walks out into the living room. His stomach is growling and he actually feels hungry for the first time in a while -

Burr is sitting at the bar, glaring at him from over a newspaper. His expression is a cold, seething anger just barely contained behind a mask, and he huffs and pulls the paper up higher. Whatever delicate balance of peace and hurt had been struck within Thomas breaks in that instant.

He can feel himself physically deflate, all sense of calm and confidence fleeing his body and he wants to shrink back into the bedroom. He’s out here in the world now, where people are dead and it _is_ still his fault no matter what Alexander said.

_No,_ he can’t do this. It is his fault, yes, but the sight of Alexander’s smile this morning makes Thomas want to tamp down the flames starting to flicker inside of him again. He tries to breathe, tries to regain the confident step he had. Just cross the living room and start poking around for food -

Except the hunger is gone now, and that’s Lafayette’s food anyway, so Thomas doesn’t have a right to it -

_Stop it,_ Thomas tells himself, forcing himself to stop forward. _Alexander would want you to eat. Come on_ -

_But you know you don’t deserve it,_ comes the voice in Thomas’ head. _All of Alexander’s friends are dead and it’s your fault_. _Your fault, you half-baked excuse for an agent, awful excuse for a man -_

Thomas goes to hold himself, arms falling into place, clutching his sides. He can’t do this. He can’t. He needs to go back to his corner and wait for -

A hand catches his before he can fully fold in on himself. Thomas doesn’t have to look to know the small, rough hand now in his belongs to Alexander.

“Thomas?” Alexander asks softly. Thomas swallows, expecting the contact to hurt, but it doesn’t. Instead Alexander runs his thumb across Thomas’ skin in the expanse between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m okay,” Thomas says, forcing himself to take deep breaths. Alexander frowns.

“Are you hungry?” Alexander asks. “Could you eat, for me?”

_No,_ Thomas thinks, answering the first question in his head. But he just nods, words escaping him as his mind throws off the calm.

But the calm doesn’t go away. It hums beneath the turmoil as Alexander keeps holding onto his hand. He gently leads Thomas step by step to the kitchen, doesn’t let go even as Lafayette quickly makes them pancakes from the batter already on the counter.

His Alexander is alive. He’s alive and here and still holding Thomas’ hand. It’s enough but not enough and too much all at the same time and it somehow balances to keep Thomas’ mind steady enough for a small appetite to return.

Thomas doesn’t get much food down before he can’t eat anymore, but Alexander’s imploring eyes and the gentle squeeze of his hand make Thomas choke down a total of two small pancakes.

When they’re both done eating, Thomas stands to do dishes, expecting Alexander to go into the living room to start planning. Lafayette does gently grab Alexander’s arm, and he can just hear a few muttered words on Alexander's part:

“...I had him for a minute...you saw him just _deflate_ … you’re fine…” Thomas waits for Alexander to tell him he’s going to the living room. But instead, Alexander joins him, standing right by his side as Thomas starts running the sink.

“Need a hand?” Alexander asks, and although Thomas really doesn’t need one and Alexander will just get in the way more than help, he nods. Alexander stands there, drying the dishes Thomas hands him, his side leaning into Thomas’.

When Burr finally calls Alexander into the living room, Alexander gives Thomas’ hand one last squeeze and then pulls away. All of a sudden, Thomas feels so alone. Without the simple contact and warmth of Alexander, Thomas is suddenly lost.

So he finishes what he’s doing and quickly follows Alexander into the living room. Instead of starting his usual sweep of the apartment to tally chores, he folds himself onto the couch next to Alexander and pulls the man into his chest.

“Oh, hello there,” Alexander murmurs, settling into Thomas’ hold. Thomas hums in response, his head settling onto the back of Alexander’s. He can see over Alexander where Lafayette’s phone is propped up in a video call with the Schuylers.

“There he is!” Peggy says. “The last man in our scrappy little gang.”

“We’re not scrappy,” Angelica says, and though she does not look as welcoming and open as her siblings, she doesn’t glare at Thomas, which is certainly better than Burr. Thomas raises one hand in a silent wave. “As I was saying, if Alexander’s chosen our destination, we should be ready.”

“Telluride, Colorado,” Alexander says instantly. “Or rather, that area. Buy up some land in the actual mountains around the town.”

“How’d you come up with that so quickly?” Lafayette asks. Alexander shrugs.

“It was on the list before we even all decided on moving to the country,” he says. “We’ll spend some time in the mountains, then…” he trails.

“Then…?” Angelica prompts.

“Then I was thinking maybe we could get to France somehow,” Alexander says, one hand reaching to squeeze Thomas’ knee. Thomas looks down at him in surprise. _France_. Thomas hadn’t been to France since college. But now, thinking about it, holy shit did Thomas want to go there.

“France?” Angelica asks, a bit of surprise and trepidation in her voice. Alexander nods.

“You have three fluent French speakers, it would work out,” he says. Alexander glances at the other two men on the couch. Lafayette looks the tiniest bit hesitant, but Burr shrugs.

“It’s your plan,” he says.

“We’ll go to the Rockies for a bit first,” Alexander assures them. “And none of you actually have to go to France, but I want to.” Alexander pauses, then looks up at Thomas. “And it might be good for Thomas. If he wants to go?”

Thomas immediately nods his head. “France. A cabin in the French countryside with dogs,” he breathes, then presses his lips against Alexander’s head.

If heaven exists, and Thomas is starting to doubt that, then it has to be in France with Alexander.

Thomas is pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden clapping sound. Peggy leans into the phone camera. “Then it’s settled. We’ve got our plan, we just have to follow it.”

“God willing,” Lafayette mutters. Peggy scoffs.

“We’ll be fine! This plan is great! In a couple of days, we’ll have Teddy back and we’ll all be drinking cocoa around a fire in the mountains.”

“We better be,” Burr says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I'm super fucking busy tomorrow and even later tonight so here you go.
> 
> Next chapter starts the final sequence in God Save. The climax is upon us dears, and we're almost done with this. That's fucking crazy in my head, but the way I've got it planned out you can count the remaining chapters on two hands. Of course, that's subject to change but for the moment that's what's planned. Thank you to all of you loyal readers, I love you all. Get buckled in for this last stretch.
> 
> See you Friday


	64. The Fall of James Reynolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know shit's getting real when my chapter titles stop being P!atD song titles and start being serious

Four days later, Lafayette walks their apartment one last time, feeling the walls with their fingertips and running their hands across the bedspreads and furniture. Their footsteps slow as they make a complete circuit of the space, eyes glittering with memories Thomas wants to ask about, but feels like he shouldn’t.

Lafayette runs their hand over the smooth, polished bar top, then looks up at the three men standing in the entryway. “Okay,” they say, voice tight. “I’m ready.”

“Said your goodbyes?” Alexander asks, just edging on teasing, trying to lighten the mood. Lafayette just looks at him.

“The ones I can,” they say. There’s a moment of silence, no one sure what to say, and then Lafayette cracks the biggest smile that doesn’t quite reach their eyes, but it glimmers bright white. “Who cares about this apartment anyway? We’ve got a cabin in Colorado calling our names.”

Alexander smiles back, but neither Thomas or Burr do. Thomas squeezes Alexander’s hand tight, his other hand holding a bag. The cold metal of a gun in his waistband presses against his back. Burr leans against the wall, clutching his own bag to his chest. There’s a good couple of feet between Burr and the other two men by the door, and Alexander hasn’t looked at Burr once.

“We sure do,” Alexander says. “Come on, the Schuylers are waiting.”

Alexander leads the group out of the apartment, Lafayette heading up the rear. They turn, go to lock the door, then stop. They pause, for just a moment, Burr already at the top of the stairs. “Not much point in locking it now, is there?” Lafayette asks. They look down at the backpack in their hand, the bag of all the material possessions they had deemed necessary to take with them.

Lafayette’s packing had been much more efficient, more thorough than the other’s, leaving a large amount of space in their bag for overflow and even a few sentimental items - even if no one said anything about the picture frames Lafayette slipped into the bag after being warned against taking things like photos.

Alexander shrugs. “Doesn’t matter one way or another,” he says. Lafayette hesitates, then slots their key into the lock, turns it, and walks away. They leave the key in the lock, not once looking back as they start down the stairs.

Thomas looks down at Alexander, who is watching Lafayette jog away with a hard, worried look in his eyes. “Are they alright?” Thomas asks. Alexander takes a deep breath.

“They’ll be fine,” he says. “I think they used to move around a lot when they were younger or something. J - John once said something about that.” Thomas pretends not to notice the stutter on Laurens’ name.

Thomas and Alexander are the last ones out of Lafayette’s apartment building, and a car is waiting for them on the street. Lafayette pulls open the door, throws their bag inside and then crawls in.

When Alexander shuts the car door behind them, the car takes off down the street. Thomas settles into his own seat, facing the Schuyler siblings, each of them dressed for their appropriate roles, their own packed bags at their feet.

The car is one of those fancy, large limousines, with ample space in the middle, the seats arranged around the edge so that the group is facing each other in a circle. Angelica looks around the group, solemn silence spread across the seven of them. Lafayette has their gaze out the window, as if they’re trying to memorize the passing streets.

Peggy looks down at the bags on the floor of the car. “That’s it, huh?” Ze asks. “Our entire lives in one bag each.” Burr follows zir gaze, eyes lighting on the four bags on the Schuyler’s side of the car.

“You did bring things for Teddy,” Burr says. Eliza nods.

“We said we would, didn’t we?” She asks. Burr lets out a breath.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Angelica says. “We’re still not out of the woods.” Burr nods.

“I know,” he says, quietly. He then looks out his own window, lost in himself. Thomas fidgets in place, not really sure what to do with his body in this plush car. Alexander grabs his hand, winding their arms together, and squeezes. Eliza’s eyes glitter slightly, looking down at their conjoined hands.

She looks back up at Alexander, obviously ready to speak, words on her slightly parted lips, and then she just sighs and leans back in her seat. Alexander squeezes Thomas’ hand again. Thomas nods. He knows. Alexander is his. He is Alexander’s.

“We’re sure Tallmadge is coming?” Angelica asks, breaking the silence again. All eyes turn to Burr, who nods.

_“So, you’re looking for a bit of revenge then,” Tallmadge asks, leaning forward on Lafayette’s couch. From where he’s perched on a barstool, Burr nods. Thomas watches from the spare bedroom, he and Alexander crowded by the barely cracked open door._

_“King killed my Theo took my daughter,” Burr repeats. Tallmadge’s eyes gleam, his lip quirks upward._

_“Right, right,” he says. “Who knew all it would take to get you to talk was a little revenge seeking.” Tallmadge then turns to where Lafayette is leaning up against the wall. “And you Lafayette? Will you be joining us?”_

_“King killed John and Alexander and Washington,” Lafayette lies, their voice hard and cold. “Of course.”_

_“I thought you were leaving the city?” Tallmadge asks, almost mockingly._

_“After this I will.” Lafayette looks at Tallmadge for the first time since he came into the apartment. “Don’t you try_ anything _.”_

_Tallmadge chuckles and throws up his hands. He laughs like a man privy to information no one else has. “Of course not, of course not. If you can get me into King’s compound, the two of you are free to go.”_

_“The three of us,” Burr corrects. “Peggy Schuyler wants in on it as well.”_

_Tallmadge’s smirk widens. “Even better.”_

“He’ll be there,” Burr says. “He wants into King HQ bad enough. His position as head of the Sons is rickety, especially after he executed Monroe. He needs to beat King to regain respect and loyalty.”

Angelica nods. “And King?”

“We’ve fed the right rumors to the right people,” Eliza says. “We just need to put Thomas and Alexander into position.”

“The police?”

“Hopefully Agent Madison took the anonymous tip.” Eliza fiddles with a loose thread on her gray shirt. “If not, I can always call again when the shooting starts.”

Angelica nods again. “And the bus -”

“The bus tickets are ready, everyone has their routes,” Peggy interjects before Angelica can even finish her question. “Land bought, officials paid off, it’s all good Angie.”

Angelica’s hand tightens around the armrest it’s on. “There’s already too much in the plan up to improvisation, I want to make sure the planned parts are ready.”

“The only improv happens once we’re inside the compound, and that’s just finding Teddy,” Alexander says. “Other than that, we’ve got our route in and out secured. It’s going to work.”

“It has to work,” Thomas adds quietly. Alexander squeezes his hand.

“Right, it has to work,” he repeats without looking up at Thomas. Thomas takes a deep breath. _In, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. A cabin in France with Alexander. In, 2, 3, 4._ He focuses on visualising the countryside with dogs scampering across the grass and sunshine beating down on him. _Out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6._

He has to stay calm. Alexander is _counting_ on Thomas staying calm. If Thomas doesn’t stay calm he could endanger the whole thing. He can do this. Stay calm and collected. He’ll be with Alexander the whole time, so he can do this.

 _Breathe, in, 2, 3, 4,_ James’ voice repeats in his head, counting Thomas’ breaths for him. Alexander slowly swirls his thumb over the back of Thomas’ hand. The fading daylight streaks into the car through the breaks in the buildings, Thomas can see it even through his closed eyelids. _Out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6._ Alexander gently lays his head on Thomas’ shoulder.

Thomas manages to lose himself in number and the heat from Alexander, and it comes as a saddening surprise when the car finally slows down and parks. Alexander gently nudges Thomas, and he peels his eyes open. His fear that it’s time to leave the safety of this car and pre-plan moments dissipates as he sees they’re not at Thomas and Alexander’s stations yet.

Instead Burr, Peggy and Lafayette climb out of the car, leaving their bags behind. Lafayette mutters quiet a ‘see you in a little bit’ towards Alexander and Thomas. Burr just taps his foot impatiently as Angelica grabs Peggy by the front of zir shirt for a hug.

“You take care of yourself,” Angelica mutters. “Don’t get shot, don’t even stub a toe. Get back to us as soon as possible.”

“Angie, I’ve got this,” Peggy says, voice light, but Thomas can see ze’s holding onto Angelica just as tightly as Angelica holds onto zir.

“You fucking better.” Angelica pulls back, and Eliza leans forward for her hug.

“Be careful Peggy.”

“You too Lizzie,” Peggy responds.

“I love you,” Eliza says, letting Peggy go after a moment.

“Love you too,” Peggy says. “Both of you,” ze adds, looking at Angelica.

“Love you Peggs,” Angelica adds, then takes a breath to say something else -

“Moonlight’s wasting,” Burr interrupts. “You need to be out of here before Talmadge and the Sons show up.”

Angelica nods, looks at Peggy one last time, then shuts the car door. The car pulls away - Thomas can see the three of his friends moving into an empty storefront. They’ll wait there until the Sons show, and get them in position to run into the Redcoat and police forces. That’s the plan at least.

The moment that the car turns the corner, Angelica lets out a breath. Eliza reaches over and grabs her shoulder. “They’ll be fine. All of them.” Angelica grits her jaw.

“They better be.”

Silence descends on the car again, but it’s a simple journey around the next block until the car stops again.

“Come on baby,” Alexander mutters, cracking open the car door. “We’re here.”

Thomas peels himself from the plush interior of the car regretfully, crawling out of the limousine carefully after Alexander. They leave their bags in the car, as well and then when Thomas turns around to shut the door, Angelica’s hand shoots out to stop the door from moving.

“Wait,” she says. Alexander looks to her and Eliza expectantly. Angelica opens her mouth to speak, hesitates, and then just says:

“Good luck.”

“You too,” Alexander responds. Thomas nods his agreement. “We’ll see you when shit starts popping off.”

Eliza smiles as Angelica snorts. “Eloquent,” the elder sister says. Alexander shrugs.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks. Angelica just shakes her head and shuts the door. A moment later, the car is gone into the rapidly encroaching night. Thomas flinches when the streetlights suddenly flick on around him.

Alexander instantly grabs for his hand, and Thomas is grateful for the contact. They’re together, they know the plan inside and out. It’s going to work.

“Come on,” Alexander says quietly, pulling Thomas towards an alley behind them. “We need to get into position.”

It doesn’t take them long to make their way to the empty apartment the Schuylers once used when the family was still on good terms with King and the Redcoats. The front window looks out into the street the empty storefront Laf, Burr and Peggy are meeting the Sons in. If you look out said front window, you can see the tops of the King warehouse and the large house just in front of it. Alexander points the buildings out to Thomas through the window.

“If Teddy is in the compound - and she’s going to be -” Alexander adds quickly, “she’ll either be in that warehouse or the home.”

“The home where King lives?” Thomas asks. Alexander nods.

“Him and Se-” Alexander cuts. Thomas stiffens as Alexander takes a breath and commits. “King and Seabury used to live together in that house.” Thomas is silent for a long moment, and then Alexander squeezes Thomas’ hand. “I’ve been inside. It’s really a nice place. Very comfortable.”

Thomas nods, gently worming his hand out of Alexander’s. He goes to hold himself, hands clutching at his sides. _I killed my brother_ , Thomas thinks. He doesn’t want to believe it, but it sits there in his head and _he killed his brother_ and it’s better to face that than pretend he didn’t and find out otherwise later.

“Hey,” Alexander says. “Seabury would have been happy in there. It’s not like it’s a dungeon or a torture chamber - shit, sorry I -”

Thomas curls in on himself. “It’s okay,” he says, “it’s okay. Not your fault. _I_ killed Sam -”

“No, I did,” Alexander says. “You tried to stop me.”

Thomas looks up at Alexander, confused. “No, I killed him. He died of a brain -”

“Oh shit,” Alexander breathes, face turned to Thomas but eyes out the window. “Don’t look, but we’ve been spotted.”

“That’s good, right?” Thomas asks. “That was the plan, wasn’t it?” He can feel the fear start to creep up. “We were supposed to get spotted, yes? Right?”

“Thomas, Thomas, take a breath,” Alexander says, his voice soft, grabbing both of Thomas’ hands and working them from his sides until they’re simply holding each other's hands. “Yes, it was the plan. We’re okay.”

“Is it too early?” Thomas asks. “Do you think the Sons are around yet? Do you think we were even seen by Redcoats?”

Alexander nods. “I can see them. They’re in bright red jackets. As for the Sons, they’ll be here soon.” He lets go of one of Thomas’ hands to cup his cheek. “We’re okay. The plan is going right so far.”

Thomas nods, leaning into the contact. He leans down and Alexander takes the cue. A short kiss and then Alexander steps back and away from the window. “Okay, now, remember. They have to see at least one of us. I’ll text Laf.”

He leaves as if to go to the kitchen and Thomas keeps himself planted at the window. He looks outside as if he was just watching the stars come out, but there, in the corner of his eye, he can now spot the man in the red jacket staring up at him from the street.

There’s just the one, and Thomas manages to calm his racing heartbeat until a second comes around the corner, followed by a third and a fourth. Soon, there’s a group of about seven out on the street. He can’t stop himself from taking a few steps back, but does manage to control himself enough to make the movement look natural, like he got bored looking out the window.

“There’s a small group of them now,” Thomas calls to Alexander. Alexander, buried in his phone, nods and then quickly taps something out. A moment later, he looks up.

“Great timing. The trio are about to lead Tallmadge and the rest of the Sons right into them.”

As if on cue, a sudden, muffled, booming sound could be heard. Thomas and Alexander both jump at it, then look at each other for a moment. Alexander rushes to the window, peers out down the street, and then announces: “Or maybe the Redcoats will find the Sons first.”

Thomas steels himself, and comes up to the window. Sure enough, just down the street, he can see a group of Red-jacketed men in cover, firing down the street at the empty storefront the Sons are currently scattering from. More gunshots sound, grating against Thomas’ bones.

The Redcoats come to see Thomas and Alexander all look at one another, and then one of them - Thomas just recognizes Reynolds - points four of them to the firefight. He motions the other three with him and they start into the apartment building.

Alexander shuts the window blinds with a snap. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“I thought the fight was supposed to start in front of us,” Thomas says, anxiety rising into panic. “We were supposed to sneak out the back.”

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Alexander says, snapping the other window blinds shut. “It’s a small change. Not much different. This is why we have weapons.” Thomas nods, reaching for the gun under his shirt and pulling it out. Alexander does the same, eyeing the front door.

“Okay, just stay on this side of the kitchen wall, start firing the moment they get the door open,” Alexander instructs. “After that, we’ll move fast. Out the door, down the stairs and out to the back of the block. The other three should meet us there.”

Alexander already has his gun raised, safety off, aimed at the door. With trembling hands, Thomas follows suit. He turns his safety off, trigger finger ready but feeling frozen. He’s not sure if he can shoot.

The silence is deafening as they wait. Thomas can hear nothing but his and Alexander's breathing. He glances down, Alexander’s eyes are glued to the door. Thomas takes a breath to speak -

The sudden, loud _thud_ from the door makes Thomas jump, his eyes snapping to the door. There are two more thuds, the door buckling under the impacts, until it breaks open with a _crash_.

Alexander instantly opens fire on the first two Redcoats through the door. One goes down instantly, the other staggers slightly but pulls his weapon up to fire back. Thomas is frozen, watching it all happen but his fingers won’t move. He can’t force himself to fire even as Reynolds himself steps into the space where the first Redcoat fell.

The second Redcoat goes down and Alexander ducks behind a wall to avoid Reynolds’ returning fire. Thomas is stuck in place, looking down the barrel of his pistol as Reynolds turns on him. Alexander just manages to pull Thomas into cover as Reynolds unloads a few rounds into the space he was just in.

The front windows shatter as Alexander pulls Thomas into his chest. Thomas stumbles, losing his balance and just only just managing to keep from knocking them both over. Alexander catches Thomas, goes to move him aside -

Strong, rough hands come down on Thomas’ arms and the pressure on his bullet-grazed wound makes Thomas cry out in pain. The fire travels up his arm as blood starts to spill and he’s yanked away from Alexander.

The next moment, there’s the cold impact of the side of a gun on his temple and Thomas’ legs give out. He goes sprawling against the ground, his vision swimming.

“Thomas!” Alexander shouts, and grunts in pain.

“Shut up you son of a bitch,” Reynolds growls. Alexander’s gun goes skittering across the floor, coming to rest by Thomas’ hand. There’s a sound like fighting, but Thomas’ entire world is spinning and his body feels heavy.

“Get the _fuck_ off of me!” Alexander says over the scuffle.

“I’m gonna kill you for what you did to the boss,” Reynolds snaps. There’s a solid _thud_ and Thomas picks his head up to find Reynolds has Alexander pinned to a wall, lifted off his feet by one hand curled around Alexander’s throat.

Alexander scrambles against Reynolds’ arm, his legs kicking even as Reynolds socks him in the stomach. Thomas can see the air rush out of Alexander’s body as his fight stills. Reynolds throws Alexander to the ground and is on top of him before Alexander can even catch his breath.

“You fucking destroyed him, you know that?” Reynolds asks, raining blows hard and fast. Alexander doesn’t answer but for the sound of gasps and grunts of pain. “You fucking took the best thing in the boss’ life and ruined it. You _ruined_ it. And I’m going to tell him all about how I killed you with my bare hands.”

Watching this, Thomas’ panic and fear dissipates. His brain starts to slow down, no longer working at a thousand miles per hour. He watches Reynolds punch Alexander across the face and something just sort of _clicks_ in his head.

Thomas pushes himself to his hands and knees, body no longer frozen or heavy. He works on instinct, training drilled into him years ago, everything else fading away into white noise. Thomas stands as Reynolds continues to hurt his Alexander. He crosses the room too fast for Reynolds to process what’s happening before he plants a swift kick to Reynolds’ side.

Reynolds’ breath is knocked out of him, the surprise giving Thomas enough leverage to pull Reynolds off Alexander and send him crashing to the ground. Before Reynolds can recover, Thomas is stomping and kicking on his chest, his arms, his head and neck.

Reynolds tries to grab Thomas’ leg, blood seeping from his now-broken nose. But Thomas easily kicks his hands off. He steps down on one of Reynolds’ hands, hearing bone crunch under his heel.

And then Thomas is straddling Reynolds. He spares just a moment to roll up his sleeves before he starts throwing as many punches as he can. Pain flares in his knuckles but it’s not until he thinks he hears one crack does he stop. _Minimize your own personal injury_ _Thomas,_ he thinks. _Be smart about this_.

He grabs the gun from where it rests on the floor just a foot away, and when he levels it between Reynolds’ eyes, the man looks up at him through a rapidly swelling eye. Reynolds spits a tooth out, sending a little blood flying up at Thomas’ face.

“You won’t do it,” Reynolds voice strained and harsh. “You’re a fucking weak, spineless coward.”

Thomas grits his jaw. “Wanna bet?” Thomas asks, and pulls the trigger.

The thing about shooting someone point-blank in the head that movies and tv doesn’t quite get right is the sheer amount of damage it does. Even with the small 9mm gun in Thomas’ hand, it doesn’t look like the pretty little headshot wound you see in film. Thomas has seen it before, so he’s not surprised at the outcome of this particular shot.

Reynolds’ head explodes in a shower of blood, viscera and skull fragments. It all goes flying across the floor, scattering out in a radius around what’s left of Reynold’s head, and some of it comes up to splatter Thomas somewhat.

He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t react to the sudden shower of blood but to slowly lower the pistol. His hands shake but only with the recoil of the weapon. It occurs to him faintly that he’s never intentionally, _directly_ killed someone like this before, but Thomas doesn’t care. He was told when he started at the FBI he’d probably have to shoot someone sometime, and killing Reynolds for touching his Alexander is more than good enough reason in Thomas’ book.

Speaking of which, Thomas looks up to find Alexander knelt on the floor just a few feet away. There’s a little bit of blood on his hands, and the spreading pool of it is creeping closer in that direction. His eyes are wide as he looks up at Thomas, shock splayed across his features.

“Holy shit,” Alexander breathes. “You just - you just!” Thomas nods, glancing down at the limp body beneath him.

“I did,” he responds, his voice even and calm. Alexander scrambles to his feet, rushes to Thomas and pulls him off Reynolds’ body. He grabs at Thomas’ face, forcing eye contact when Thomas knows Alexander doesn’t need to force Thomas to look at him. Not now at least.

“Are you okay?” Alexander asks.

“I’m perfectly fine, are _you_ okay?” Thomas asks. “He didn’t hurt you too much, did he?”

Alexander blinks, seemingly taken aback by the calmness radiating from Thomas. “I’m fine,” he says. “You just shot someone, how are… are you…”

Even though Alexander can’t quite verbalize it, Thomas knows exactly what he’s asking. Thomas smiles, taking Alexander’s hands in his own. “It wasn’t great,” he admits. “But it’s a part of the job. I was trained for this kind of thing.”

Alexander swallows, nodding carefully. “Yeah, okay, but, that wasn’t - you shouldn’t have had to do that - I’m surprised you’re not a mess - oh shit I shouldn’t have said that -”

Thomas squeezes Alexander’s hands. “No one is going to hurt you anymore,” Thomas says. Alexander stops his babbling, eyes glittering. “Not anymore. Not as long as I’m around.” With that, Thomas lets go of one hand to give Alexander his gun back, and then pulls him out of the apartment, leading him along.

There’s a confidence in Thomas’ step that hasn’t been there since he got back to New York. He has a definitive goal now, in a set of circumstances he knows very well. Gang violence complicated by a hostage situation. Basic FBI training, armed conflict 101.

Thomas leads the way down the stairs, efficiently sweeping the area and checking each corner before making the turn. He can feel Alexander’s eyes on him the entire time, but he just keeps moving. He’s hit his stride. He knows _exactly_ what he’s doing now. There’s nothing in his head but efficient procedure and instruction. His mind won’t _allow_ anything else - anything else and this calm confidence might break.

If not thinking about anything else is what will let him get through this, then Thomas is completely okay with that.

Thomas exits through the back door, only dropping Alexander’s hand in order to allow an easier quick search. The back door opens into a small space, leading to an alley back to the street away from the main conflict. The sounds of gunshots just a block or two away makes Thomas’ breath hitch, and he finds himself counting what he can hear. It scares him, but not in the soul-shattering way Thomas has been scared for the last week or two, just the logical, subdued fear. There are people shooting, of course you’re going to feel a little fear. But this is the type of fear Thomas can work through easily.

When he’s done with his immediate sweep, he turns to motion Alexander towards him and all he can see is the hungry, wanting look in Alexander’s eyes. “God I love you,” Alexander breathes. Thomas blinks as Alexander makes his slow way to him. “You look so fucking good all confident.” Alexander presses himself against Thomas’ chest. “You saved me up there,” he says. Thomas smirks.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “But we can talk about this later. There’s a little girl we’re here to save.”

Alexander nods, his fingers curled into Thomas’ good arm. They stay like that for a moment, the air magnetic between them, like it used to be seemingly forever ago. Then Thomas plants the shortest kiss on Alexander’s forehead and turns to walk down the alley, gun held tight in the hand not holding Alexander’s.

“We go meet up with Laf, Burr and Peggy next,” Thomas says, the plan running through his head, putting mental checks next to the objectives ‘lure the three combatants into a stand off” and ‘take care of Reynolds somehow.’

“Then go get Teddy,” Alexander adds with a nod.

“And then we get out.”

“We get out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go folks.
> 
> OH SHIT EDIT FOLKS:
> 
> A user by the name of Cyshack has started to translate God Save into French [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12798147/chapters/29210376). They're looking for a Beta, so if you speak French and wanna help out on a translation project, hit them up! I speak almost zero French but maybe one of you could help!
> 
> See you Friday


	65. The Last Stand of the Sons of Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka "The Chapter Where I Drop A Bunch of Backstory That Should Have Been Explored Earlier But Oh Well We're Here Now No Going Back."

Lafayette was used to these sorts of dramatic shootouts across streets. Americans seemed to prefer the blockbuster after all. As much as they loved their friends here, they had no sense for the delicate, careful things. From their food to their nightclubs to their love making to their deaths, everything had to be bigger, better, bolder, brighter.

That wasn’t to say they’d never had one of these standoffs in France, they popped up every once in a while. Sure, Laf had taken part in their fair share. But it wasn’t their specialty, not what they were born, raised and trained to do. They couldn’t help but find the drama of flying bullets almost _passé_ in a sense. Anyone could do this, kneel behind a car and fire blind at a large group, hoping to hit someone.

No, Lafayette had always preferred the finesse that came with contract killing. One target, one bullet, one chance. The whirlwind hurricane around them was thrilling in the sense that yes, their adrenaline was pumping, but it bored their mind. There was no _art_ to this. What they had done in France had been the equivalent of blowing glass, taking a small tool to the glowing almost liquid and carefully carving gentle ridges in it, quick and calculated - one chance to get it right before it cooled and they would have to start over.

So, when Lafayette found themself pinned behind the trunk of a car, trading gunfire with boys in bright red jackets, it felt more like taking a chainsaw to a pile of logs. Mindless destruction with no point, no macabre beauty they had marveled at since they were twelve. They can’t see the faces of the people they’re cutting down, probably doesn’t know their names, but honestly doesn’t care.

The Redcoat hoard presumably coming to help lynch Thomas and Alexander had come down the wrong street, too close to the empty storefront for the Sons to have gotten any decent position on the street. They had come sooner than planned as well, and Lafayette had watched a half dozen of their old comrades go down in the first wave of bullets before the rest had found cover.

It was almost like they’re blind and deaf to everything but three things - their current target, the location of Peggy and Burr, and the still-open door to the store front. All they need to do is slip out of the fire fight, through the store and out the back. If they could do that without attracting the attention of the Sons or the Redcoats, they were home free to meet up with Thomas and Alexander.

Lafayette fires round after round over their car. In the firestorm of gunshots and bullets, it’s almost impossible to tell which redcoats they fell themself and which are other people’s kills

A sudden cry from behind the car where Peggy and Burr were hiding, and when Lafayette turned their head they found Burr crouching over a prone Peggy, blood pooling beneath zir and another body just a few feet away.

“Peggy!” Lafayette shouts over the gunfire, and Burr looks up, his face grim.

“We need to get zir inside!” Burr shouts back, motioning towards the storefront. A small inkling of suspicion lodged itself inside their gut, but Lafayette nods. The other two are closer to the store, so Lafayette darts out across the street to where they are. Out of the corner of their eye, they spot Tallmadge glance their way, but Peggy’s the important one here.

Lafayette kneels down besides Peggy, and finds that ze’s still breathing, zir clothing stained in enough blood that Lafayette can’t find the bullet wound on first glance. They stuff their gun into their pants. “Come on,” they say, gently scooping Peggy into their arms. _Zir’s breathing is even and strong,_ Lafayette notices, _maybe ze’s just passed out from the pain and shock_.

Burr dashes out in front of Lafayette to get the shop door open further and soon all three of them are inside and safe. Well, safer than they were at least. Lafayette goes to lay Peggy on the floor. If they’re fast and lucky, maybe this won’t be like John, maybe they can actually -

Peggy’s eyes fly open and ze jumps off the floor with a sudden burst of energy that has Lafayette stumbling back a step in shock. “Thanks, Laf,” ze says, dusting zirself off.

Lafayette blinks, their gaze searching Peggy’s body for a wound they’re rapidly coming to realize isn’t there. Realization hits them in a wave of relief. “You scared the hell out of me,” they breathe. Peggy flashes them a smile.

“Sorry, but it worked didn’t it?” Ze asks. “We had to get out of that shitstorm somehow. Now we just gotta meet up with Thomas and Alexander.” Ze crosses to the back door of the empty shop, one hand reaching for the doorknob -

The next instant Lafayette’s ears are ringing in the aftermath of a gunshot.

There’s a splatter of blood on the wall where Peggy’s head used to be.

_One target, one bullet, one chance._

Lafayette is at Peggy’s side in an instant, but the crumpled shape has no head above the ears, and there’s nothing they can do.

“You fuckers,” Talmadge’s growl catches Lafayette’s attention, and they turn just enough to see the man himself standing in the shop door. Lafayette can almost see the smoke rising from the gun in his hand, the one now pointed at them. “You all set us up, didn’t you?” He slams the door behind him.

Burr glares at Tallmadge, gun already up and pointed in his direction. Tallmadge barely pays him any attention, his eyes glued on Lafayette. _Smart_ , Lafayette thinks, _keep your eye on the danger in the room_.

“You set us up. Are you working with King? Huh?” Talmadge prompts. The door behind him creeps open slightly, Lafayette can see it, but Tallmadge must not notice. “Or did you go full snitch like Washington? Am I going to have to shoot you two like him and Adams?” Burr frowns, looking over at the door.

“Does it really matter to you?” Lafayette asks, their voice hard. Their gun digs into their side. Lafayette might be fast, but not faster than a bullet.

“Yeah, actually,” Tallmadge asks. “If you’re working with _cops_ ,” he spits the word like a curse, “I’m going to make sure you die much slower than Peggy.”

“We’re not,” Burr says, glaring down the barrel of his own gun. Tallmadge doesn’t look at him, but instead takes a couple of steps towards Lafayette.

“So, the ‘Thomas’ you’re working with isn’t Jefferson?”

“He’s not a cop anymore,” Burr says. Tallmadge rolls his eyes.

“Once a cop always a cop,” Tallmadge counters. “Pigs are all the same.”

“The cop who shot Hale is dead, Tallmadge,” Lafayette says. Tallmadge’s eyes flare, his jaw grits.

“Doesn’t fuckin matter,” he says, “the whole lot of them tried to cover it up.”

“Jefferson isn’t an agent!” Burr insists. Lafayette feels their gut churn. _Shut up_ , they urge in their head, _you’re always so silent, why the fuck are you talking now?_

“They’re all the fucking same!” Tallmadge insists. “How many unarmed boys do they shoot daily, huh? How many like Hale die every single day? They shot my best friend, nothing happened, and they just keep doing it!”

“Was Monroe armed when you shot him?” Burr asks, and Lafayette inhales sharply. Burr glances over at Lafayette so very briefly, something in his eyes. “What about Washington? His wife?”

Tallmadge’s shoulders stiffen, his hand clenches around the butt of his gun. Lafayette wants to reach out and slap Burr. “Monroe was a threat.”

“To you and your little power play,” Burr counters. “Were the Washingtons a threat? Was Adams?”

“They were working with cops!” Tallmadge shouts. “They were snitches, and I had to do what I had to do!” His gaze flicks back and forth between Lafayette and Burr, realization playing across his face. “This is revenge, isn’t it? It’s not going to work, I’ll take you two out and run.”

“Do you think you can escape this?” Burr asks, motioning out the shop window. “Do you think you and all the Sons can just run and expect to live?”

Tallmadge smiles slightly. “Who cares about the rest of them? If I live I can still step into the void Washington left.” Lafayette’s breath catches, they stand.

“You’d abandon the Sons?” They ask. Tallmadge scoffs.

“You did, didn’t you? You never believed Jefferson killed the Washingtons, you’ve got a soft spot for him. It’ll ruin you, you know. Having a soft spot for a _cop_.” Tallmadge’s gaze settles on Burr for just a moment, realization flooding his face before he turns back to Lafayette. “Oh, I should have known you’d figure it out, that you hadn’t actually fallen for it. You were always too smart for your own good Lafayette. This isn’t just about Washington, it’s about -”

“Tallmadge, you motherfucker!” The door flies open, and instantly Tallmadge spins. Three large men - Lafayette can just recognize them, three foot soldiers under Knox - are standing in the door, the first one coming stalking in. Lafayette can see where Tallmadge stiffens.

“Sully -”

The first man, Sully, is on Tallmadge in a minute. Tallmadge was a large man, yes, but Sully was larger. He has a fist full of Tallmadge’s shirt in an instant. “You wanna repeat what you just said?” Tallmadge is silent, and Sully starts to shake him roughly. “Huh? You ‘did what you had to do?’ To the _boss_?”

Tallmadge doesn’t answer, and the other two Sons are coming into the building now. Lafayette can just see where Tallmadge is slowly raising his gun to point into Sully’ stomach and _no, that won’t do_. Lafayette darts away from Peggy’s side and grabs at Tallmadge’s wrist, expertly twisting the gun out of his grip and dancing away towards Burr.

Tallmadge desperately reaches out after them, but Sully’s eyes go wide and flare with anger. “Oh, you were going to shoot me too? Gonna leave everyone out there to die?”

“Let me go, I’m your boss now-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sully hisses. “We’re in this shit because of you.”

“Let me go!” Tallmadge insists. “I was just joking, I wasn’t going to leave you!” He twists, tries to pull at Sully’s arm but the other Sons are on him, holding his arms and holding him in place as Sully plants his fist right into Tallmadge’s stomach.

“I said shut up,” Sully says as Tallmadge gasps for air. “Let’s go boys, we have another traitor to deal with.” Sully motions towards the open shop door, and when Lafayette instinctively follows the motion they realize that from this position, Burr would have been able to see out the door while he was taunting Tallmadge.

More specifically, Burr would be able to see where Henry Knox leans against the wall, shielded from fire by a newspaper stand, a grim look on his face. And suddenly they realize why Burr kept taunting Tallmadge as he did: Knox and the Sons had been just outside, listening. As Sully makes his way out into the street, the other Sons pulling a struggling Tallmadge along, Tallmadge makes eye contact with his second in command.

“Henry! You were there with Washington! I didn’t kill him, tell them I didn’t -”

“Shut up Benny,” Knox replies. The group stills, Sully and the other Sons looking at Knox with what almost is trepidation.

“Henry,” Sully grunts, and Knox slowly nods.

“He killed Washington,” he says, and Tallmadge’s eyes blow wide. His struggles double in intensity as Sully nods and they start to pull him from the safety of the store.

“Knox, you fuck! He’s the traitor!” Tallmadge shouts desperately, but Sully and the other Sons are having none of it. They continue to drag him further out into the open, the last scraps of surviving Sons turning to look at what’s happening.

Then Knox steps inside and shuts the door quietly. He stares at the cold metal of it for a long second, then sighs. Burr glances over at Lafayette, but no one moves until Knox turns around. His eyes land on the crumpled, bloody body by the back door.

“He killed Peggy too,” Knox says, but it’s not a question, more a statement of fact. Lafayette nods anyway, and Knox screws his eyes shut for a moment. “The Schuylers are going to come down on all of us for that,” he mutters and then looks up at Burr and Lafayette. “You guys are probably fine, I’d guess. Maybe.”

“Our friend is dead,” Lafayette hears themself say, slowly going back over to be by Peggy’s side. Ze didn’t even have a chance. There’s so much blood and viscera.

“I’m sorry,” Knox says. “I truly am. At least it was instantaneous.” He looks down at Peggy’s broken body.

“Some consolation,” Burr grumbles. Knox’ jaw sets in a hard line. Lafayette gently runs his hands over Peggy’s face, much of it surviving the sideways shot, and closes zir eyes.

“Painless,” Knox says. “More than a lot of us get.”

Lafayette stiffens, and when they speak their voice is cold. “Why?” they ask, looking carefully up at Knox. “Why did you turn on him?”

Gunshots outside the window make Knox flinch. “I had to,” he says. “Repentance and all that.” He glances outside, to where Tallmadge is now face-down on the ground, one arm twisted painfully behind his back.

“Repentance?” Lafayette asks. “You could have stopped it. What good is _your_ repentance?”

“I was angry,” Knox says suddenly. “I was watching my friends and family die. Nate was…” he lets out a breath. “He was one of the first and it only got worse and B.T. was talking about how it was Washington’s fault for trusting a cop and I believed him when he said we needed to do something about it.” He looks back at Lafayette, guilt and grief plastered across his face. “Washington was one of my closest friends. He saved my life so many times and I just - I watched him die.” The smallest of smiles crosses his face for but a split second. “I let him die! And I let Benny kill him and Adams and Monroe and…”

He trails again, looking over at Burr wordlessly. Burr stiffens, his face the same impassive stone. Knox looks down at Peggy for a heartbeat, and then back up at the other two people in the room. “I’m sorry.”

Neither Burr or Lafayette respond, and after a moment, Knox just nods to himself. “That’s fair,” he mutters, and then turns to look out the window again. The bodies are stretched out across the concrete and asphalt, blood running into the gutter. Lafayette can’t see Tallmadge anymore, nor can he see Sully.

“You two should go,” Knox says. “Whatever it is you are up to, I’m not going to get in your way.”

“We don’t need your permission,” Lafayette counters, and Knox shrugs.

“You don’t, just know the Sons aren’t going to come after you.” Knox hangs his head. “I don’t think the Sons are still a thing anymore anyway.”

A hollowness settles in Lafayette’s gut. They’d come to terms with the Sons they knew being gone, but to hear someone else say it was another thing entirely. “You’re not going to try and take over yourself now?” Burr asks, something akin to surprise in his voice. Knox shakes his head.

“There’s no Sons without Washington,” Knox says, “or Adams, Laurens, Benny, not without you and Hamilton,” Knox adds with a glance at Lafayette. “All the other governors are dead. I’m the only leadership still standing, and I say the Sons of Liberty are dead as well. It’s over.”

The carnage outside continues as Knox watches out the window. His hands are clasped behind his back, but then one slowly travels to his hip. Lafayette can see the faint outline of a gun through Knox’s thin, blood-splattered shirt. “I’m the only one left,” Knox repeats, “without me, there is nothing.”

A cold understanding floods Lafayette, but they cannot force themselves to try and argue against Knox. Instead, they just nod. “Burr, let’s go. Thomas and Alexander are surely waiting.”

Burr hesitates for just a moment, but Knox does not turn around. He does not pull his gun from his waistband. He does not move even as Lafayette slowly opens the door and motions Burr out.

Lafayette spares just a single moment to crouch over Peggy one last time. He takes zir weapon - they’re sure Peggy would want that - and lays their hand over zir cold, still one. How the hell are they supposed to tell Angelica and Eliza?

Lafayette lets out a breath - the best goodbye they know how to give Peggy - and then follows Burr out into the back alley. The door shuts behind them and for a moment it is still. There is no violence, no blood back here. Just empty space surrounded by brick. The way to the street is clear. They are alone.

A single gunshot, muffled by the walls and door of the shop, sounds.

And then it is still again.

Lafayette rolls their shoulders and looks over at his remaining companion. Burr wears an expression of slight contemplation, as if he was simply turning over an interesting fact in his head. Lafayette looks away and starts to walk out of the alley. They have no use for whatever is going through Burr’s head.

The alley empties out into the street perpendicular to where the collection of men that used to be the remnants of the Sons of Liberty still hold their ground against the force of Redcoats. Lafayette glances once down that direction to be sure it’s clear, then goes to turn their back on the people they once considered siblings -

Tallmadge stumbles out into the intersection, still unbelievably alive despite his flight through no-man’s-land. He limps as he struggles to make the turn down the street towards Lafayette and Burr. He’s not even paying attention to where he’s going, just watching both sides around him as he stumbles backwards, away from the fight.

_One target, one bullet, one chance._

Lafayette’s father’s words echo in their head as they raise Peggy’s gun. They aren’t thinking beyond impulse and instinct, training drilled into him by his bastard of a father long long ago.

They squeeze the trigger once, barely even sparing a real glance to aim. A moment after the gunshot it the sound of something empty and slack hitting the ground.

“Good aim,” Burr mutters. Lafayette does not respond. They just simply start down the street to where they hope Thomas and Alexander are waiting.

They all just need to get out of this hell and soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peggy dying wasn't all that shocking I know. It's literally one of the only deaths that's been called to there and back. Tallmadge and Knox are gone now too though, so yay for the decreasing antagonist count?
> 
> Anyway, finals are coming up and I'm honestly surprised I actually managed to finish this chapter on time, so the next few weeks might be touch and go for updates. I'll be sure to let you guys know, and thanks for your understanding and patience in advance!
> 
> See you Friday (hopefully)!


	66. Don't Shoot the Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get caught up with James

James has had the _worst_ month of his life, and that feels like an understatement.

When Revere comes knocking on his office door with a phone in his hand, telling him that the Sons and Redcoats are in a standoff in Hell’s Kitchen, James just wants to shut him out, put his head on the table and ignore everything. He can’t take this anymore. He’s been begging Revere and the New York governor to consent to federal help - to allow martial law to come down and finish this off.

But Farnese doesn’t want it and the state won’t grant permission for it. Without it, the president doesn’t want to send troops in so that leaves James desperately trying to cling to any semblance of law and order he can find. He just doesn’t have the men or the money or resources to put King down like he’s being ordered to do.

And yet another firefight is not what James thinks they can handle right now, but letting it go isn’t acceptable either.

“Hell’s Kitchen you say?” James asks, standing from where he’s been studying the latest casualty reports. Revere nods.

“A couple of blocks from the Redcoat warehouse compound.”

_That_ gets James’ attention. “That close?” He asks. Revere nods again, and suddenly James sees the light at the end of the tunnel. If he can get SWAT that close to the compound, draw _someone_ into firing at even _one_ cop, it could be over. They could string out the Redcoats and take the compound.

Take King down.

James tries not to get his hopes up, but if they can haul King out of that compound in handcuffs, it all would end. Without a force like King behind them, the Redcoats would collapse.

“Gather as many policemen as we’ve got, and tell Steuben to call SWAT. If we play our cards right, we could end this all tonight,” James says, reaching for his gun on the table.

The state of things when James arrives at the standoff lower his already dismal hopes however. There are bodies strewn about everywhere, blood running through the streets and into the gutters. Scouts are saying there’s only maybe a handful of Sons still up and holding the Redcoats back, and they think they found the bodies of Benjamin Tallmadge, Henry Knox and Peggy Schuyler.

They’re not sure of course, they couldn’t get too close to the remaining Sons forces without risking getting shot themselves, and James makes the decision to set up a barricade on the other side of the Redcoats. Once it’s safe to take over the Sons position, they’ll sandwich this portion of the Redcoats and decimate them.

It’s a good plan, in theory at least. Then again, much of what’s happened in this damn assignment was once a good plan in theory.

So, standing behind an open car door, pistol in one hand and radio in the other, James is just waiting for the next thing to go wrong. He’s not even wondering _if_ something’s going to explode in his face, it’s just a matter of _when_ at this point.

\--------------

The meet-up point is the streetlight in the middle of the block behind the old Schuyler apartment Thomas and Alexander had just made their way out of, but Thomas doesn’t trust the idea of standing directly in the light. So he makes Alexander hang back against the wall of a building by the light, close enough for Lafayette, Peggy and Burr to see them when they come but far enough to be in shadow.

They stand there, both leaning up against the wall, but Thomas can feel Alexander’s heavy gaze boring into him. He can almost sense the energy radiating off Alexander, the man just barely holding back from reaching out and touching Thomas. Thomas shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but the way Alexander is looking at him remind him of a forest clearing by a county fair -

Thomas moves first. He launches out of his still position, turning so he’s got Alexander pinned against the wall. He spares just a moment to see the excited flash in Alexander’s eyes before he dives in to claim his man once again. Thomas kisses him with an intensity he hadn’t had since the last time in the hotel, nipping at Alexander’s lips, hands holding Alexander’s sides, pressing him to the wall.

And Alexander responds, throwing his arms around Thomas’ neck and pulling him as close as possible. They kiss and it’s like fireworks flashing brightly over their heads, colorful victory burning in the way Alexander parts his lips for Thomas’ tongue. Thomas can hear the little moans from deep within Alexander’s chest. There is nothing in Thomas’ reality except Alexander, Alexander, _Alexander_ -

Someone clearing their throat pulls Thomas out of this reverie and worship of his Alexander. When Thomas pulls away, Alexander is breathing hard below him and the desire in his eyes makes Thomas warm and tingly on the inside.

But there’s a part of Thomas’ brain still in business mode, and Thomas looks over to find Burr and Lafayette standing by the lamppost. They’re both splattered in blood, and a few strands of Lafayette’s careful bun have come out and float around their head in the electric night air.

“Hello,” Thomas says. Alexander is still gulping down air, his hands moving from Thomas’ back to tug on the front of his shirt, urging him back down. Thomas shakes his head and leans away. “Ready to go, then?”

Lafayette looks between them, concern and confusion plastered across their face. There’s a hesitant relief on Burr, his fingers tightening around his gun. But then Thomas frowns. They’re missing someone.

“Where’s Peggy?” He asks, gently pulling away from Alexander fully. Alexander’s head snaps to the left, eyes flicking around, looking for a sign of the missing person. Burr’s face falls instantly. Lafayette’s eyes flash, they take a breath as if to speak, but let it go wordlessly, a grim frown etched on their face.

Thomas straightens, shoulders set. “Lafayette,” he says. Lafayette’s eyes snap to him, a little surprise dancing deep within them.

“We’re going to have a hard conversation with Angelica and Eliza,” they respond.

Alexander’s eyes widen, and his whole body stills. Thomas places one hand on his shoulder and squeezes tight. There’s a crack in his new found composure, and Thomas takes a few deep breaths to seal it as best he can before turning back to Lafayette.

“How?”

“Tallmadge. It was quick.”

Thomas nods. “And Tallmadge?”

“I shot him,” Lafayette takes a step forward. “Thomas are you okay?”

Thomas nods. “I’m fine,” Thomas says. “I just hate breaking this kind of news. They’ll be glad to know that bastard’s dead.” Lafayette nods slowly, and Thomas can tell they’re confused about something. He turns to Alexander, who hasn't moved. His eyes wide and glistening, obviously he's lost in his own head.

“Alexander?” Thomas gently prompts. Alexander doesn't respond for a moment. “Alexander, baby?” Thomas tries again, and this time, Alexander slowly blinks and looks up at him.

“Peggy’s dead?” Alexander asks. Thomas nods, puts both hands on his shoulders, and leans down to look him directly in the eye.

“Yes, I'm sorry,” he says. Alexander eyes flick back and forth across his face, and then he turns to Lafayette and Burr.

“No, Peggy doesn't just die. That's not who ze is, there's no way Peggy would just… _die,_ ” he says. He tries to walk towards Laf and Burr. “We gotta go back, we gotta help zir -”

Thomas tightens his grip on Alexander, pulling him back to look him in the eye again. “I'm sorry Alexander, but Peggy’s dead and we have to go. We’ve gotta go get Teddy.”

Alexander looks up at him, slightly dazed, slightly angry. “Teddy, and then we get out,” he says.

“And then we’re out,” Thomas repeats. He takes Alexander by the hand, and looks over at the remaining two members of the Sons bait team. “Come on, we have to go.” He tugs at Alexander’s hand, and it takes a small amount of force to actually get the man moving.

Burr nods, quickly falling in step behind Thomas and Alexander as they start to walk down the block, away from what might remain of the Sons. Alexander lets out a low breath, and gone is that magnetic energy. It’s only anger emanating from Alexander now. Thomas squeezes his hand as reassuring as possible, but they don’t speak.

“Thomas,” Lafayette starts, coming up beside Thomas, “are you sure you’re okay?” They’re forced to walk in the gutter to be level with Thomas and Alexander, but it doesn’t seem like they care. Thomas nods.

“Better than ever,” he says, quirking his lip upwards slightly. Lafayette’s eyebrows scrunch, and they lean forward to look over at Alexander.

“What happened?” They ask.

Alexander shrugs, his voice still a little far away as he responds: “Thomas blew Reynolds’ head off and now he’s back. I’m not questioning it.” Lafayette stops in their tracks, looking at the two of them, mouth agape.

“Thomas…” Lafayette trails, eyes wide in shock.

“Hm?” Burr hums in a question.

“He _killed_ Reynolds,” Lafayette explains. Thomas glances over his shoulder just long enough to see a slight smile cross Burr’s face.

“Good,” Burr says. Lafayette looks at him, then back at Thomas, concern evident. They shake their head, coming up to walk beside Burr.

“Goddamnit,” Alexander breathes, pulling Thomas’ attention away from the two people following them. Alexander lets go of Thomas’ hand to wind his arm up Thomas’ and grab a hold of Thomas’ upper arm. “Peggy wasn’t - none of us were supposed to get hurt.”

The crack in Thomas’ head splinters, stretching just the littlest bit wider, but he ignores it to grab onto Alexander’s hand with his free one. “We knew this plan was dangerous,” Thomas says, voice calm. “Plans change Alexander, you and I should know that more than anyone.”

Alexander looks up at him, and grips his arm tighter. He’s got a small bruise across his face and a small cut on his forehead from where Reynolds had beat him. “The rest of us are going to be fine. You and I are going to be perfectly fine.”

Thomas nods. “No one’s going to hurt you while I’m around, I told you.” They cross a street and continue to follow the block to the next intersection.

But Alexander shakes his head, squeezing Thomas’ arm as tightly as possible. “You’re not going to get hurt either.” Thomas smiles.

“Of course not. If I do, who would protect you?” He asks, ignoring the drying blood on his shirt and the still stinging pain in his arm. He leans down to plant a short kiss onto Alexander’s forehead. “I love you,” he mutters. Alexander hums.

“I love you too Thomas.”

Thomas opens his mouth to say something else when Lafayette calls: “Wait a moment.” Thomas instantly stops in his tracks, Alexander doing the same, and they wait until Lafayette and Burr are equal to them. “We don’t know how large the police barricade is going to be,” they explain, and then pushes past Thomas and Alexander to reach the intersection ahead first.

They peer down the left hand turn and when they come back their face in grim. “It’s pretty thick here, do we want to go another block down?”

“Another block down and there’s no street to get up towards where Angelica and Eliza are,” Burr says. Thomas looks past Lafayette and discovers Burr’s right, the next intersection doesn’t have a branch leading right. Gently, he slips his arm out of Alexander’s hold to go peer down the street towards the police barricade.

The Redcoats getting into position early had allowed them to set up more territory in their two-front fight, pushing the police further back than planned. Another crack starts to twist its way into Thomas’ head, but he takes a steady breath.

There are cop cars and slights blaring from down the street, men and women in police blues crouched behind cars and car doors, yelling for the Redcoats to put their weapons down. The street Thomas and the others were supposed to take to the Schuyler sisters served as a no-man’s land, like the street a few blocks back had served between the Sons and Redcoats.

“Going down that way is a quick path to getting shot or arrested,” Thomas says over his shoulder. Alexander comes up and grabs his hand, leaning into him as he looks down the street as well.

“They’re not firing,” Alexander muses. Thomas shakes his head.

“Police won’t fire until they’re attacked - hopefully - and I don’t think the Redcoats are ready to open that can of worms until the Sons are taken care of,” Thomas says. He turns around the face the group. “This is probably the only place this can happen.”

All eyes turn to Lafayette. They take a breath, and then nod. “It’s gotta be here,” they say.

“They’re so close to the Coats,” Alexander says. “You could be shot. We lost Peggy, we can’t lose you too.”

Lafayette shrugs, then reaches up to tear their hair out of their bun. “What other choice have we got?”

\---------------

The red and blue lights of cop cars splay across the ground and buildings, casting odd duplicate shadows everywhere. Louis stands towards the front of the barricade on the hood of a police car, a megaphone in his hand, calling a request for the Redcoats to stand down. He’s silhouetted by the headlights of Redcoat cars pointed at him, the light shining through his whips of blond hair.

Steuben is pacing over by the SWAT van, all geared up himself and ready to go. James can see where he’s muttering to himself, gun strapped to his hip. Sally’s not here, she’s back at the police precinct. The spoken reasoning being she’s helping Ludington run information, but in all reality, James wants at least one of them to survive this goddamn it. _One_ of them has to make it home.

Oh, home. The one place James wants to be more than anything. Home with Dolley. Having their monthly dinner with the team - it was summer so it would be a barbeque. Steuben at the grill, frying up hamburgers and hotdogs. Dolley fussing around the sides. Sally, Louis and his wife Marie playing with the couple’s kids in James’ huge backyard. James, Ben, Martha and Thomas drinking beer and laughing.

What are team dinners going to be like with half of them gone? What’s life going to be like with _Thomas_ gone?

No, focus. James has to focus. He can’t think about his best friend rotting at the bottom of a river. God knows he’s spent too much time picturing that anyway. _Twice_ now, twice has he lost Thomas and this time, James isn’t sure if he wants Thomas to be dead or if he wants him back.

If being alive means Thomas faces treason, then maybe it’s best for him to be dead. This way, no one has to see Thomas go to die. Because Thomas couldn’t survive jail, James knows that. Thomas wasn’t built for that. He just wasn’t built for any of this.

And if Thomas had chosen to abandon James like this, then fuck him anyway. James takes a hissing breath. Thomas made his choice. Thomas made a hundred choices. James just has to figure out how to deal with those choices.

So Thomas is dead. Thomas is dead and James is possibly facing the gunfire of a gang whose seemingly been killing half of New York.

“It doesn’t have to end in violence!” Louis says through his megaphone. “Put your weapons down and end this!”

“Man, fuck you!” Someone shouts from inside the Redcoat lines. The frustration is visible on Louis’ body.

“Louis, get down off the car,” James says, leaning into his radio. Louis shoots him a glance over his shoulder.

“Sorry, no,” Louis responds.

“You’re going to get shot,” James responds, “get off the damn car.”

“Gonna give me an order?” Louis says, voice hard and bitter in the radio. “Jefferson gave me one once, see where that got us.”

James’ face twitches. “Please get down,” he asks. _I can’t lose another one_ , he adds in his head. Louis turns around fully to look down at James. For a moment, they just look at one another, James silently pleading for Louis to get off the car and back into safety. James leans back into his radio, not willing to shout across the distance to Louis.

And then the headlights behind Louis dim slightly, like something is passing in front of the car lights.

\--------------

The car headlight is hot on Lafayette’s back as they take off from the corner, running as hard as they can towards the wooden barricades. For whatever reason, Agent Capet had turned his back, so Lafayette is going to have take this opening.

They make it almost completely across the intersection before they hear the first shout. “Hey!” Some cop somewhere yells. “Stop!” Lafayette doesn’t listen, dashing across the little remaining distance to the barricade. They hurdle over the wooden barrier in one swift motion, hitting the ground with their shoulder and rolling back to their feet.

Voices are rising in a shouting cacophony around them, but they keep their eyes focus straight ahead.

\--------------

Thomas just jumped the barricade.

James is frozen in place for a heartbeat, unable to form any other thought. _Thomas_ just jumped over the wooden barriers separating the police line from the Redcoats. That mass of hair is undeniably Thomas’, though his face is masked by both it and the odd lights surrounding them all.

Thomas is jumping back to his feet, looking straight down the street at James, though he can’t tell if Thomas can actually see him.

_No_ , he can’t do this again. He can’t go through Thomas being suddenly alive _again_. He can’t put Thomas in handcuffs and send him to prison again.

Louis is the first to move, diving off the car he’s on and down towards Thomas. He gets his arms around Thomas and pushes him to the ground just as Thomas starts to move again.

\--------------

Lafayette wasn’t expecting Capet to move as fast as he did. Capet was a negotiator, though perhaps they shouldn’t have assumed that meant Capet was in any worse shape than any of the other agents.

They grunt as they hit the ground, a whole body above them, and they curse. They can’t be caught this early. Lafayette manages to roll onto their back, and while Capet is struggling to get them pinned, they use one hand to strike the little area just below the other man’s adam’s apple. There’s a pressure point there, and Lafayette must hit it straight on if Capet’s reaction to the blow is anything to go by.

Capet recoils, hands flying to his throat, and an ugly choking sound escapes his lips. Lafayette uses the extra room to push him off, coupled with a second blow to the throat. They need some time to get moving, and Capet holding onto their ankles is not what they want.

Capet hits the ground, struggling to breathe, as Lafayette quickly rolls back over and pushes themself to their feet. They avoid getting tackled from the side as they take off again.

\--------------

Seeing Louis hit the ground shocks James back into movement. Before he can really think, Thomas is already back on his feet and running down the street towards him. Thomas gracefully manages to avoid any attempts to stop him, dodging around men and parked cars alike.

“Stay!” James shouts at Revere when he sees the other man start after Thomas. “You’re in charge!” Revere stops, looking at him in surprise as Thomas darts past them both. James catches just a glimpse of Thomas’ face, the hard expression on Thomas’ face breaking just for a moment as they lock eyes.

But Thomas is quick, darting away as James starts pursuit. There’s a good continent of men following them both as Thomas leads them all down the street.

“Stop, or we’ll fire!” Someone calls, and James sucks in a breath.

“No! No one fires!” He shouts, praying they can all hear him.

If Thomas is alive - what his eyes are telling him - James doesn’t want him to die here, shot in the back by some overeager cop. Not now.

\--------------

Staying ahead of the police is not very hard. Lafayette is fast, and they’ve got the endurance to lead them on a foot chase. Their ears are pricked for the sound of cars, but for now all there is is the shouting of people as they rush past police. They can hear Madison’s cry not to fire on them, and for that they are grateful. They had bet Madison wouldn’t fire on them, but to hear it confirmed is a relief.

Ahead of them, Lafayette can spot more wooden barricades, with police lining them, holding back a set of reporters. _Brave people_ , Lafayette thinks, eyeing the cameras as they get closer. The police in front of them are starting to turn around to find out what the commotion is, and Lafayette can hear the shutter of cameras going off.

They glance back once, trying to figure out how much time they’ve given their companions. Any extra time is helpful, they know, so instead of running into the cops in front of them, they take a hard right.

\--------------

As Thomas nears the other side of the police lines, James thinks it’s going to be over. There’s nowhere for Thomas to go. But they take a hard right, dancing around an officer who tries to grab him. Thomas darts around the group in direct pursuit and starts back up towards the front.

James turns on a dime, heading back as well, heart pounding in his ears, breath harsh. Steuben is beside him, keeping pace in heavy body armor. The other officers are starting to falter, to slow, but James is determined.

Ahead, Revere is coordinating police into a net of sorts, cutting off Thomas’ escape route that way. Thomas swerves to the right, obviously looking for an opening.

\--------------

Lafayette’s eyes scan the area ahead of them. They don’t need an opening through the approaching line of police, just any hint that they’ve given the others enough time.

And there, at the opposite corner from where they came from, Alexander shoots Lafayette a quick thumbs up, and then disappears into the shadows. Lafayette lets out a breath of relief. The others will meet up with the Schuylers soon, and phase three of the plan can start. They glance back to find Madison and another, larger man in full body armor still on their heels.

\--------------

James watches as Thomas begins to slow before the dead end of police that he’s facing. Relief floods James, it’s just about over. Steuben gets to Thomas first, pushing Thomas to the ground, face-first into the pavement and planting a knee in his back. Almost instantly, Thomas goes limp, no fight in him now. Steuben runs his hands over Thomas’ sides, but must find no weapon.

James leans against a car for a moment, letting himself sag and catch his breath. He needs a moment before he goes up to face Thomas again. _Thomas_ , who’s miraculously alive for the second time. He doesn’t quite remember Thomas being so _goddamn fast_. By the time he’s collected himself enough, Steuben has a pair of handcuffs on Thomas, but he hasn’t hauled him up yet.

James walks up to Thomas, crouching down by his head. Steuben is just finishing up the Miranda, so James doesn’t bother with anything legal or eloquent as he shouts “What the _hell_ Thomas?!”

Except then he stops. Now that he’s up close, he can see that the face looking up at him is too thin, to angular to be Thomas. An odd mixture of despair, disappointment and giddy relief rush through his body as he recognizes _Lafayette_ on the ground.

Lafayette looks up at him for just a moment, expression hard as something unreadable dances in their eyes. “If you were hoping I was Thomas, I’m sorry to let you down,” they say. James frowns, trying to quell the swirl of emotions in his gut. He can’t do this.

James looks down at them, dead in the eye. “Do you want to explain yourself?”

To his surprise, Lafayette nods. “I have a message for you and your team,” they say. James blinks, leaning back. He looks up at Steuben.

“Let them up,” James says. “Hold on to them though.” Steuben nods, and soon Lafayette in on their feet. “What?” He asks, addressing Lafayette again. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I’m here to tell you how you can get in that compound and arrest King, _tonight_ ,” Lafayette says. James narrows his eyes as they continue: “Provided of course, we make a small deal for my freedom.”

James takes a deep breath, eyeing the person in front of them. He opens his mouth to ask _how_ when a voice calls his name from behind him. He turns to find who called for him and he finds Revere, who waves him over to where he stands by a small group of people. “Put them somewhere secure,” James instructs Steuben. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”

Steuben nods and pulls Lafayette back towards the prison transport vans in the back. James sighs and walks over to where Revere is, and when he gets close his stomach drops. The people by Revere aren’t cops, they’re paramedics. Paramedics gently lifting a limp Louis into a black body bag.

“Crushed his trachea,” Revere explains. “Suffocated.” James’ insides turn cold. Louis’ eyes are thankfully shut as someone zips up the bag. They start to carry him away, and James feels like he’s going to be sick.

James drops his head in silent prayer for Louis, and then turns back around. There’s a Frenchman somewhere claiming James can end this tonight, but if James is honest, Lafayette better have one hell of a proposal. James can pin so much death on them, it’s not even funny.

James wants to turn back time a month and make none of this happen. James wants Thomas, Martha, Ben, and Louis alive. James wants to talk to any of them one last time. Wants to look Thomas in the face and ask “why?” James wants a thousand things he can’t have.

More than anything, James just wants to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say without possibly giving away spoilers so I'm just not going to say anything.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Louis Capet aka King Louis XVI was the King of France during both the American and French revolutions. Born as Louis-Auguste in 1754, he arose to the throne in 1774. He was married to the infamous Marie Antoinette and had four biological children, as well as a swath of adopted ones. Louis (and his wife) were generally despised by the French people, due to Louis tax' policies and general disregard for the French commonwealth. He was forced to give up some of his power to a constitutional monarchy after much turmoil in France, and later the monarchy was abolished by the French revolutionaries. He was executed by guillotine in 1793. The name "Capet" was given to him by the French revolutionaries. "Capet" was the name of the monarch (Hugh Capet) who dynasty to which Louis belonged, so the revolutionaries assumed that to be Louis' family name. He was executed under the name "Citizen Louis Capet," any sense of power and royalty banished from him
> 
> See you Friday


	67. Two Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside King's compound, a man stands inside a darkened room, waiting.

After leaving Lafayette to James, it isn’t long before Thomas, Burr and Alexander find themselves in front of the empty building the Schuylers had chosen as their base of operations for the plan. A few men are scattered about the front of it, men who still had some shred of loyalty towards the Schuylers, acting as guards.

The three are let past without a second glance, solemn looking men waving them through towards the door. Thomas is the first in the building, the first to start up the stairs, the first to reach the apartment door. He knocks - _two, pause, two, pause, one_ \- and waits only a moment before Eliza opens the door.

“Hey,” she says, waving Thomas and the other two in. Angelica sits at a desk on the other side of an almost empty room, burner cell phones scattered across the desk, long with a couple of computer monitors. A couple are playing the news from different stations, another has a map up of the surrounding area, and the last one as a list of bus schedules plotted out on a spreadsheet.

“We ready?” Thomas asks. Eliza looks up at him in surprise, and even Angelica turns around in her chair.

“Just about,” she says, then she looks over the trio standing just inside the doorway. Her eyes narrow, a concerned frown spreads across her face. “Where’s Peggy?”

\--------------

James hits the side of the armored van, looking down at where Lafayette sits on the bench against the wall. They’re handcuffed, looped around a chain that keeps them locked to the floor. They look up at James calmly, waiting.

“You’re saying,” James starts, speaking slowly, “that in two hours, you can hand over King and his entire compound to us.”

“In return, you let me and my friends go,” Lafayette insists. James scowls.

“We can’t let a _whole gang_ go free -”

“The Sons are not my friends, not anymore,” Lafayette interrupts. “They’re basically gone anyway. It’s just se- six of us. We go free, you get King and all his drugs, weapons, money, men…” they trail.

“Two hours,” James repeats. Lafayette nods.

“Two hours,” they repeat, and hold out their hands to be uncuffed. James hesitates, glancing back at the open van doors. Steuben stands guard, his back to James and Lafayette. Outside, the police lights spin, casting rotating light and odd shadows around. The ambulance - the one holding Louis body - sits on the side of the road. There’s no point risking it leaving when all it contains is a dead body.

James shakes his head. “You’re staying right here.”

Lafayette draws their hands back in surprise. “But -”

“Your friends should be expecting you might not get released.” James turns back to look at them. “Seeing that you’ve planned so far ahead.” Lafayette’s eyes dance, they search James’ face.

“We might have contingences for that,” Lafayette says, words picked carefully. James shrugs.

“Well, they’ll simply have to act on those,” James says. “You murdered an Agent not twenty minutes ago.”

“Part of the deal is I’m set free to -”

“You will be,” James interrupts, “if it all goes as you say it will. And you’ll be given a three-hour head start.”

Lafayette lurches forward. “That’s not the deal -”

“It’s the deal I’m making,” James says, turning to walk out of the truck. “I’ll see you in two hours Lafayette.” He hops out of the back of the truck, ignoring Lafayette’s protests. He slams the doors shut and flicks the lock. Steuben looks down at him with one raised eyebrow.

“Get your boys ready for a raid in two hours,” James says.

“You’re going to listen to Lafayette?” Steuben says. James nods.

“It’s our best shot,” he says. “We haven’t made moved from this position in hours, we need to do _something_.” James walks towards where Revere is, they all have to be on the same page. James needs to get a handle on the situation and end it _quick_. If Lafayette and their friends - James assumes that’s Hamilton, The Schuylers, and maybe a few other ex-Sons - are really going to hand King over, James isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

\--------------

“ _You let Peggy die?!_ ” Angelica shouts, now halfway across the apartment. Rage radiates off her raised shoulders.

“It was too fast,” Burr says, sliding around Alexander to stand next to Thomas. “There was nothing we could do -”

“Bullshit!’ Angelica interrupts. “Peggy - ze’s not - _what did you do?_ ”

Burr stiffens. “We couldn’t do anything! It was a perfect headshot.”

“Angie,” Eliza murmurs quietly, coming over to stand by her sister. All the color has drained from her face, her hands shake as she gently takes Angelica’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander starts, only to be interrupted by Angelica.

“No, Peggy’s too good to just get _shot_ ,” Angelica growls. “Ze’s too -”

“Ze wasn’t paying attention -” Burr tries to speak up, only for Angelica to shout him down again.

“ _Peggy would never ‘not pay attention!’_ Not in a gunfight! What did you and the French fuck do?!” Angelica demands.

“Angelica, we don’t have time for this,” Thomas starts, but Angelica turns her fiery eyes on him.

“Oh, what do you have to say, _pig_?” Angelica spits. “This is as much your fault! You fucking _cop_.”

“Angelica, we can do this later,” Thomas says. “We’ve only got -” he glances at one of the computer monitors - “An hour and a half.”

“ _My sibling is dead!_ ” Angelica shrieks. Eliza’s hold on Angelica tightens.

“Angie, please,” Eliza says. “We’re still in danger.” Angelica looks down at her still-living sister, and the anger in her eyes dissipates. There are tears streaming down Eliza’s face as Eliza tugs gently on her sister’s arm. Angelica gathers Eliza into her arms, burying her face in Eliza’s hair.

Thomas watches another minute pass on the clock and he fidgets. He opens his mouth to speak, but Alexander grabs onto his hand and squeezes. _Give them a moment_.

It’s not too long before Angelica picks up her head to look at the three men again. “Fine, we can talk about this later,” she says, voice hard and bitter. Thomas feels relief flood his system.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Thomas says, feeling like there are shards of glass poking into his head. The look on Angelica’s face is picking at the cracks in his composure, but he grits his jaw. “But Teddy’s the priority.”

Angelica nods, pulling away from Eliza long enough to grab one of the phones on the table. “Church, we’re moving. You’re in charge of the raid.”

Thomas blinks, Burr sucks in a harsh breath. “I thought you were going to be in charge,” Burr says. Angelica shakes her head.

“Change of plans boys,” she says. “Eliza and I are staying right here.”

“What?” Alexander asks. Angelica frowns.

“I’m not risking anything. Eliza is not going into that compound, and neither am I. We’re all that we’ve got left.”

“What about your father?” Alexander asks. “Come on, we need you two. The more people we have the better chance we’ve got to get Teddy.”

Angelica shakes her head. “Father’s dead.” Alexander recoils, even as Eliza nods her head. “We said he wanted retirement so no one tried to take Morningside Heights from us. But he’s gone. It’s just me and Eliza now. And we’re not going in.”

Alexander turns to Eliza. “Betsy, please. We need all the help we can get.” Eliza hesitates, wavering on her feet but Angelica grabs her hand and squeezes.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” she says. “I have to stay with Angelica.” Alexander grits his jaw, and looks between the last Schuylers.

“Philip would be disappointed in you two,” Alexander spits, and then spins on one heel and marches out of the apartment. Thomas sees the insult and anger build in Angelica’s face again, but he’s out the door and after Alexander. If the Schuylers aren’t coming, then that just means Thomas needs to be there to protect Alexander even more.

Burr follows but a moment later, and then they’re on the street. John Church - one of the Schuyler men - meets them at the door. Just down the street, Thomas can see the tall barbed-wire fence that surrounds the Redcoat compound. _Teddy’s in there somewhere_ , Thomas knows. _In and out, and then we’re home free_.

“Lafayette hasn’t shown,” Church is saying. “We’re assuming they’re being held.” Thomas nods even as Alexander curses.

“Let's get this over with,” Thomas says. “Were almost done.”

\--------------

There are three entrances to the Redcoat compound. One is from the water - how Jefferson got in to rescue Hamilton. The second is the main entrance, to the east of the compound, opposite the Hudson. That entrance is unassailable, even with most of the Redcoat forces holding back the police. It would still be too heavily guarded for the Schuyler forces to take. The third is a smaller entrance to the south, one lined with guard buildings to examine whatever cargo is going in and out of that entrance.

The thought had been that the smaller entrance would be left fairly unattended during such a crisis, a thought that proved to be correct. It didn’t take long for Church’s small gang of men to take out what Redcoats had been left here. They cleared out the buildings in record time, finding that only one had access to the larger compound.

“One entrance, one exit,” Jefferson says. “Easy to watch.”

Aaron nods, holding his gun in one hand. He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. His _daughter_ could be only feet away and they’re sitting here twiddling their thumbs. “Good,” he says, “more can come in the compound. Hamilton, Jefferson; you two on lookout?”

Jefferson nods, his head held high, posture ramrod straight. Aaron isn’t exactly sure _what_ got into Jefferson to make him actually seem competent, but he wasn’t going to question it. If Jefferson managed to snap out of his pathetic state, then that was better for everyone. That didn’t mean Aaron completely trusted him.

“What? No!” Hamilton protests, but Jefferson is already pulling him away from the door into the compound.

“Come on,” Jefferson says. “Let them go get Teddy.”

“But!” Hamilton starts to protest, but Jefferson gives Aaron and Church one last nod. Aaron isn’t sticking around for yet _another_ argument. The Schuylers had done nothing but waste time. He’s not sure how much time they have left, but it’s not enough for Aaron to feel secure in it.

“We’ll come back through this door,” Aaron says, already halfway into the compound. He hears Church say something to Hamilton and Jefferson, but Aaron is ready to go. He’s going to get his daughter if it was the last thing he does.

It doesn’t take them long to be spotted by what Redcoats still remain in the compound, and soon Aaron is once again surrounded by shouting and gunfire, the metallic smells of gun smoke and blood mixing in awful ways that make his nose itch.

Aaron finds himself knelt behind a forklift, a pistol in his hand, watching men fall. He doesn’t dare poke his head out too far, except to look for openings. He’s certain Teddy’s going to be held in the main warehouse. And if not, there should be records somewhere of where she is.

Aaron frowns as he sees the line of Redcoats blocking his way to the warehouse. Church and his men are similarly pinned down somewhere else, but something needs to break before time runs out. Police bursting into the scene can only hurt them all.

Aaron leans back so he can think a moment, and finds himself face-to-face with a Redcoat. He’s got three small dots on his cheek, and he’s looking at Aaron down the barrel of a gun. Aaron instantly swings his up, ready to fire, when the Redcoat lowers his. He presses a finger to his lips, Aaron watching in confusion as he then points over towards the warehouse.

A side door is propped open slightly, just enough that Aaron can see the lights on inside. When he turns back to the Redcoat, he’s already heading down towards Church and the others. A few more men appear and follow him. Aaron knows that they’re going to flank Church, that they’ll massacre the last of the Schuyler forces.

But the door is propped open, an invitation too tempting for Aaron to ignore. Quickly, Aaron stands and sprints for the door, passing the line of redcoats by just a few feet. One of them glances at him, but does nothing but turn his attention back to the Schuyler force.

Aaron slips into the warehouse, the harsh fluorescent lights hurting his eyes for just a moment before they adjust. Shelves of crates greet him, as well as a few Redcoats who watch him with wary eyes. But they don’t move as Aaron starts into the large space.

“Main office,” one of them grunts, jerking his head towards a door on the other side of the warehouse. Aaron eyes him cautiously, grip tightening on his pistol. But no one moves to stop him as he crosses the warehouse slowly. There’s a cold hand on his heart as he reaches for the doorknob, eyes flicking about for danger.

Aaron finds the door unlocked, easily opening for him. He slips inside, letting the door shut behind him. If this is a trap, then so be it. This could possibly be his only chance. He gently flicks the lock shut, just for a little insurance.

Because King is the only other person in the room, standing by a window covered in blinds. He peers out through them, one finger lifting up a blind so he can see through. In his other hand is a lit cigarette.

“Aaron,” King starts, his voice friendly and kind. “I was starting to think Tallmadge managed to kill you too.” King turns around, and Aaron inhales sharply. There’s a smile splitting his face, flashing dangerously white, but his eyes are almost dead. He looks at Aaron like he’s not quite seeing him, with nothing in his gaze. Aaron can’t read a single thing from him as he speaks again.

“You and I have something to talk about, don’t we?”

\--------------

James paces the street, glancing at his watch. Half of the SWAT Team is behind him, waiting for his order to go. Lafayette told them to go through the south entrance in two hours. Well, they’re a block away from the south entrance with forty-five minutes to go. He can hear the sounds of gunshots coming from the direction of the compound. But Lafayette said two hours. So two hours it’s going to be.

But damn him if he’s not getting antsy.

\--------------

“Where’s my daughter?” Aaron asked, with his fingers flexing against the gun in his hands and a cold hand around his heart. King’s smile doesn’t slip as he motions vaguely in the air around him.

“She’s around. Don’t worry, she’s being taken care of.” Aaron stiffens, and King chuckles. “I mean that literally, it’s not a metaphor. One of Reynolds’ girls is watching her.” He sticks the cigarette between his lips and starts to root around in his jacket.

“Where is she?”

“Come now, Aaron, she’s safe,” King steps forward towards the desk in the room. He motions to the chair closer to Aaron. “Take a seat. We need to talk.” Aaron stands still, gun coming up as King steps closer to him. King looks up from where he’s peering into his jacket and frowns, cigarette still held in his mouth.

Slowly, King pulls his hand out of his jacket and suddenly Aaron is staring down the barrel of a pistol himself. King uses his other hand to pull his cigarette from his mouth and for a moment they just stand there. Aaron’s hand tightens around the grip of his weapon, heart pounding in his ears.

Then King smiles again, wider this time. “My gun’s bigger than yours,” he sings. Aaron watches his finger fiddle with the trigger for a moment. Then King pulls the gun closer to him, as if examining it in the low light. “Here’s something not a lot of people know about me Aaron: I’ve never shot anyone.”

Aaron blinks as King chuckles. “Never! I’ve ordered so many deaths, but I’ve never actually shot anyone! How…” he trails, as if looking for a word. “How just like us, hm? Neither of us have ever killed ourselves.”

“Do you want to change that about me?” Aaron asks.

“Put that down, we both know you won’t shoot me. Not when I’m the only person who knows where little Teddy is.” King takes his seat with a small flourish. “If you were going to, you would have shot me when I brought my gun out.” He puts his weapon on the table, muzzle still pointed at Aaron. Then he shuts his eyes and takes a long drag on his cigarette. When he opens them again, Aaron still hasn’t moved, and he sighs.

“Oh, Aaron, how did we get here? We used to be such good friends,” King says, then pauses for a moment, looking down at the gun on the table. “Well, we were such good business partners. Don’t you remember? We used to sit right here and make such wonderful little deals. You used to deal in information, why don’t we make one last little deal?”

Aaron grits his jaw, and takes a careful step towards the desk. “You’ll tell me where Teddy is?”

King nods, that dead-eyed stare sending chills down Aaron’s spine. “More than that. I’ll hand her to you myself and set the two of you on your way to safety. We just have to make a small little deal first.”

\--------------

“It’s not fair!” Alexander shouts at the closed door. Thomas frowns from where he’s standing.

“What’s not fair, that you’re not getting the chance to be shot at?” Thomas asks. Alexander lets out a noise of frustration.

“We’re supposed to be in there!” Alexander says. Thomas nods.

“Yes, but we’re down half the team and Laf still hasn’t shown.” Thomas doesn’t voice the rest of his thought - that he preferred Alexander to be _here_ and not in the immediate danger. _Philip would be disappointed_ echoes in Thomas’ head, which is just about half the reason Thomas even let Alexander get this close after Angelica and Eliza pulled out.

Alexander grumbles something to himself and glances at his phone. “Where the hell are they? Burr’s got thirty minutes.”

\--------------

Aaron slowly takes the offered seat, the gun still gripped tightly in his hands. “Why should I listen to you?” He asks. “Why shouldn’t I just put a bullet in your head and find her myself?”

“Why would you?” King asks through a puff of smoke.

“You had Theodosia killed!” Aaron responds, leaning forward in the leather-bound seat. King blinks, taken back for just a moment. “I should kill you just for that.”

King pauses, those empty eyes searching Aaron’s face. Then his smile twitches just a bit wider before he breaks out into laughter. There’s no mirth in the sound, it sounds twisted and awful. “Oh, no no no _no_ ,” King says, finally speaking again. “I didn’t do that.”

Aaron’s heart skips a beat. “Then how’d you get Teddy?” He asks, then he feels fear shoot through his veins and he rockets out of his seat. “Do you even _have_ her?”

King nods. “Yes, I do, calm down Aaron. I promise you I do. I only have her because Reynolds found her in a pool of her own mother’s blood.”

“And you expect me to believe Reynolds didn’t kill Theo?” Aaron asks, leaning over the desk. King does not even flinch.

“He didn’t,” King says. “He got a call telling him where Theodosia and Teddy were and when he got there they were already dead. None of us did a thing.”

Aaron scoffs, his knuckles turning pale around his gun. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I lie Aaron?” King asks. “I didn’t kill Theodosia or Mr. Smith or that Agent. Why would I? You and your girls don’t matter to me anymore. Why waste time and energy hunting you three down when I had Thomas and Alexander to find?” King leans forward in his seat so that they’re only a few inches apart. “Besides, why would I lie to _you_? I never have before.”

Aaron leans back slowly. “If it wasn’t you, who was it then?” He challenges, stomach sinking as the little red flags that have been flying in his mind since Peggy died start waving faster. King tilts his head.

“Who all knew where your family was, hm?” King asks. “Who would have wanted to extend a little peace offering to me?”

Aaron stifles a gasp, but still falls back into his chair. _I should have known you’d figure it out, that you hadn’t actually fallen for it,_ echos in Aaron’s head. _This isn’t just about Washington, this is about -_

“Tallmadge,” Aaron breathes. “He killed Theo and gave you Teddy to get you off his back.”

King nods. “I didn’t kill Theodosia.” King leans over the desk towards him. “Now, I just want to help you. I’m more than willing to let you have Teddy back.” Aaron looks up into those empty eyes.

“What’s the catch?” Aaron asks. King’s smile grows just a little wider.

\--------------

Alexander paces the floor, running his hands through his hair. “Fuckin Burr,” he mumbles, “how long does it take to find one baby!”

“Who knows where she’s at,” Thomas counters. He glances at the clock on the wall. “They’ve still got time.”

“Five goddam minutes!” Alexander shoots back. “If Burr doesn’t come through that door -” Alexander points towards the door leading into the compound - “right goddamn _now_ I will literally blow his head off.”

“He’s got time.”

“We were supposed to be long gone before the police get their chance,” Alexander says, wringing his hands. “We’re supposed to be gone and on a bus. We’re supposed to be safe by now!” He kicks over one of the chairs in the room, sending it clattering loudly across the tile.

Thomas comes over and grabs Alexander by the hand, pulling him into his arms. “Hey, hey now. It’s going to be alright.” Alexander stiffens.

“We need to find a new phrase,” he mutters. “I don’t like that one anymore.”

Thomas smiles, even as Alexander pulls away. He glances at the clock, Burr has two minutes left. Thomas would be lying if he said he wasn’t also getting anxious, he doesn’t want to have to leave Burr behind, but if that’s what it takes -

The door behind Thomas and Alexander crashes open, with a spectacular splintering sound. In the seconds after, five things happen:

One: Thomas’ brain draws the conclusion that there is no possibility that whoever just came crashing into the room is friendly. The Schuylers would have called if they changed their minds, and Burr and the others would be coming through the other door.

Two: Thomas and Alexander both spin towards the other door, and Thomas can only see the guns pointed through the door and towards them.

Three: Two gunshots sound, Thomas managing to bring his own weapon up and fire at the exact same time Alexander does.

Four: James Madison collapses to the ground as another bullet hits the wall beside where his head used to be.

Five: The cracks in Thomas’ head split open. Fire and brimstone rain down in his mind as he processes what he’s just done.

There are men in SWAT uniform now stuck on the other side of the door, trying to carefully get around James’ limp, unmoving form without injuring him anymore. Thomas takes a slow step forward, trying to comprehend that he _just shot at his best friend_. No one’s firing, not even as Alexander grabs Thomas’ wrist and starts to pull him towards the other door.

Alexander is shouting something, Thomas can’t hear. James isn’t moving, there’s blood pooling under his body. Someone breaks a window and starts to come through, avoiding James entirely. Thomas gets one last look at James - he looks _broken_. Like he’s already dead. The clock on the wall shows it to be one minute past Burr’s deadline.

Alexander pulls Thomas through the door and into the compound, throwing the door shut and pulling him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK FUCKERS
> 
> I was so upset that this was the chapter I was going to have to delay but also I'm glad I did because I'm really happy with how this came out and trying to write this around finals would have not done it justice. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> ALSO I GOT OFF A WHOLE PLOT TWIST WITHOUT A N Y OF YOU PICKING UP ON IT FUCK YEAH 
> 
> See you Friday!


	68. Inside the Church of Saint John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas dreams his ideal future

Someone is shouting. No, someone is yelling James’ name.

Thomas is being pulled backwards, away from the building where James is bleeding out and dying and _I shot my best friend_ -

“Thomas, we have to go!” Alexander says. Sounds are starting to return, and people are shouting all around them. Gunshots echo but Thomas can’t quite understand any of what’s happening any more. He lets Alexander pull him along like a doll. He can’t get the image of James’ body out of his head.

Alexander pulls them behind a large building just as the door they came through bursts open again. Police and SWAT forces come pouring out into the compound and suddenly the two men ducking for cover are forgotten.

James is just inside that small building, dying if not already dead, and Thomas shot him. Thomas feels like he’s being choked from the inside. It’s his fault. All of it is, James wouldn’t be there if Thomas hadn’t built this whole situation himself -

“Thomas, breathe, please,” Alexander is saying. He’s put Thomas up against a wall, gritty brick digging into Thomas’ back. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“I _shot_ -” Thomas word’s catch in his throat. The world is crashing down around him again. “James is - oh God - I -”

Alexander grabs at his arms only for Thomas to shrink away. His legs feel weak, he sinks to the ground, curling in on himself as tightly as possible. “James, I’m so sorry James,” he keens. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”

Alexander glances around them quickly, then kneels down to be at Thomas’ level. “Thomas,” he says, calm voice betraying his worry only in slight tones, “I understand you’re upset, but we need to keep moving, okay? We’re in danger, and once we’re safe we can work through this.”

Thomas shakes his head, hands pulling at his own hair, needing _something_. “I shot James.”

“No, well, maybe,” Alexander says. “It could have been me! We don’t know. It doesn’t matter, you didn’t know, you just reacted. Both of us did. Come on, I’m here, breathe.” Slowly, carefully, Alexander puts his hands on Thomas’. “Don’t pull your hair, just breathe.” He gently works Thomas’ hands from his hair to hold them tight.

Thomas holds on to the sound of Alexander’s voice, even as he stares at his bloodstained hands being held in Alexander’s. Alexander looks around again, the echoing shouts and gunshots reminding Thomas where exactly they are.

“We need to move,” Alexander says softly. Thomas tries to breathe, feeling the air itself burn his throat and chest. The sight of James’ limp form won’t leave his mind, but slowly he comes to see there’s no _actual_ blood on his hands.

“Alexander,” Thomas says, voice harsh. How he hasn’t started to cry he doesn’t know. Alexander instantly looks at him, eyes shining with worry and love.

“I’m here,” Alexander says, squeezing Thomas’ hands. “Can you stand?” Thomas takes one last deep breath, filling his lungs the best he can before he nods. Alexander helps him to his feet, and though he wavers, he stays upright. Alexander loops his arm through Thomas’, walking him slowly to the edge of the building.

“Okay, if we’re fast, we might make it out the front entrance,” he says. “We can find somewhere to lay low for a bit, and then get out.”

“Burr, Teddy,” Thomas says quietly. Alexander looks back at him for a moment.

“I’m sorry, but time’s up. If they got out, we’ll see them in Colorado. But it’s just you and me now. Okay? You and me.”

Thomas nods, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. “We tried.”

“We tried,” Alexander confirms, nodding. His grip on Thomas’ arm loosens enough to slide down and grab his hand. “We’ve gotta move, okay? Just follow me.” Thomas nods again, and Alexander pulls him out from behind cover. Thomas can’t help himself from looking out into the main compound. From what he can see, the remaining Redcoats seem to be doing a good job holding off the SWAT team.

But they’re all so focused on the side entrance that it’s not hard for Alexander to slip them past the guard booth and out onto the street. Someone shouts after them, there’s a few gunshots that burrow into the concrete at their heels as they run across the street and to the next block. They duck into an alley and when Thomas glances back, there’s no one pursuing. Thomas isn’t really processing anything, it’s almost like he’s watching someone else’s dream.

Alexander pulls him to the other side of the city block, glances up and down the street and then looks up at the building directly next to them. “There,” he says, and pulls Thomas to the front doors of a large church.

The sign outside tells Thomas that the large door Alexander is struggling to get open belongs to the Church of St. John, but he doesn’t have the time to worry about the irony before Alexander manages to get them inside.

The doors open into the wide hall before the nave, open archways revealing rows of pews stretching out before them in the darkened room, the altar on the other side. Inside the stone building, it is quiet. Thomas cannot hear the echoes of gunshots or people shouting here, only the quiet sounds of his and Alexander’s breathing.

“We can hide out here, wait until things calm down so we can slip out unseen. No one’s going to be looking inside a church,” Alexander says, his quiet words almost filling the large space in front of them, but he sounds odd in Thomas’ ears. It’s almost like Alexander is speaking to him in slow motion, his voice muffled. His footsteps echo around the chamber as he leads Thomas to the backmost pew.

Now that it’s quiet and the sense of urgency has gone, the reality of what Thomas has done finally starts to seep in for real. He stiffens in his seat, looking up at the opulent altar and sanctuary ahead. Stained glass windows around them offer barely any light, just the gentle glow of diffused street lamps and moonlight. Alexander runs his thumb across the back of Thomas’ hand.

“How you doing?” Alexander asks, looking up at him. Thomas stares straight ahead.

“James,” is all he manages to get out. The panic is gone, replaced by cold shock. Thomas almost feels numb. It all doesn’t feel quite _real_ , like Thomas’ mind is refusing to conceptualize what he’s done. Alexander lets out a breath.

“You didn’t mean it,” Alexander says. “You were just protecting us.”

“It was _James_. I shot my best friend,” Thomas says, the words feeling foreign in his mouth, like he’s attempting to speak German or Swedish.

“You might have missed. I shot too, you know,” Alexander says. “Not much consolation, I suppose.” For a moment, they both fall silent. Thomas stares ahead at the carved fences marking off the sanctuary, the giant metal pipes of the church’s pipe organ that stretches up the back wall.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in a church,” Alexander remarks. He’s looking around the church, simply taking in the interior. “Haven’t set foot inside one since my mom’s funeral. She was… Presbyterian, I think? Can’t quite remember. There are so many damn branches of Christians, can’t keep track of you all. She believed in your guy though.”

Thomas isn’t quite hearing what he’s saying, his brain stuck on a loop of _James_ and gunshots. Alexander runs his fingers on top of the pew in front of them. “I, uh -” he lets out a breathy laugh, “- might have asked your guy for help while you were gone though. Prayed to Him for the first time in… a long while.”

“You don’t believe in God,” Thomas manages to say, eyes tracing the lines of the organ pipes. His mind is a thousand miles away, mouth working on impulse. _James should have been wearing a bullet-proof vest_. _He probably was, but there was blood, so he must have been hit_ -

Alexander frowns. “Yeah, I _do,_ Santeria’s too tied up in Catholicism not to, I just don’t have the best relationship with the guy. When you got sent away, I was pissed, sure, but King was going to be looking for you no matter what. So, after I got done talking to Shangó, I sorta thought maybe we could use a little extra help?” Alexander says, fingers dancing on the wood. “Never really used to do that before,” he says, more to himself than to Thomas. Silence descends again, and then Alexander coughs, shifting in place.

- _in the side then. God, it could have been a flesh wound or it could have torn into James’ organs. It all depends on the angle. And he fell in such a heap_ -

“Wow, these statues sure are… something.” Alexander points up to the marble saints etched in the arches of the church. Mary, Joseph and other Saints that Thomas recognizes peer down at them. “They look kinda, I dunno, judgmental? Looking down like that.” He nudges Thomas in the side gently. “Thought that only happened after you died.”

Thomas looks down at Alexander, confused. Alexander shrugs. “Isn’t that the deal? You get judged at the pearly gates by some guy in a robe yeah? Saint Patrick?” For just a moment, his voice is clear.

\- _Did James see me in that moment before he fell? Did James know who shot him?_ -

“Saint Peter,” Thomas corrects gently. “Not his job either.” Once again Alexander shrugs.

“Patrick, Pete, tomato, to _ma_ to.” Alexander looks back up at the statues with a frown, his voice fading out again. “Still look kinda nasty. Maybe they should have just gotten a different artist or something. I mean, do you really want those faces watching you when you get married or something?”

\- _Was it even my bullet that hit him?_ -

Thomas looks up at the statues. He supposes a few of them are wearing unfortunate expressions, St. John himself looking vaguely like he ate a particularly sour lemon.

- _There’s no way to know but James looked so limp_ , _so_ -

Alexander grunts. “Or maybe I’m just not a church guy then. But we’ll find a pretty one for the wedding.”

Thomas blinks, his mind catching on the word “wedding,” and he looks back down at Alexander in surprise. “What?”

Alexander shrugs, glancing around the dark space again. “I figure you’ll want a church and a priest and the whole nine yards. Which, I’m cool with. I’m sure there are good churches in France. We’ll find a nice one and get married. Hell, we could do it in Notre Damn.”

“Notre- _Dame,_ ” Thomas corrects again, completely on impulse. His brain is struggling to understand exactly what Alexander is saying. Alexander nods, eyes now glued to the pipe organ in the back.

“Sure, that. We’ll get married in Notre-Dame. Because you deserve that Thomas, after making it through all this shit. Once we’re out and safe I’ll give you the goddamn wedding of your dreams, I swear. If you wanna get married that is.”

“Wanna get married?” Thomas asks, repeating it over.  

Alexander nods. “Like I said, if you want to,” His voice is suddenly clear again, at normal speed, and Thomas’ brain suddenly connects the dots. “Since we’re going to be together, might as well, yeah? Go get married in France, it’s something we could do. I wouldn’t even mind being Alexander _Jefferson_ , ‘Hamilton’ has too many bad memories attached to it. Or we could just pick a new name, something French. Get married in France with new names and start over completely!” Alexander looks over at Thomas, and then suddenly there’s a glint of fear in his eyes. “Unless you don’t want to get married, which, I mean, that’s fine too, whatever you want -”

“Yes,” Thomas says. Alexander blinks.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Is that, a _yes_ you want to get married or a _yes_ you don’t want to get married? Because I’m okay with either -”

Thomas shuts Alexander up the only way he really knows how - by diving in for a kiss, pressing his lips up against Alexander’s until they still and kiss back. Thomas pulls away, looking down at Alexander.

“Yes, I want to get married,” he says. Alexander’s eyes light up, the hand still holding Thomas’ grips hard enough that it almost hurts.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Alexander says. Thomas rolls his eyes. All that numbness is gone, all Thomas can focus on is the way Alexander is smiling at him and how he’s standing up and gently pushing Thomas on the shoulder.

“Hey, what -”

“Wanna practice?” Alexander says, excitement boiling over as he nudges Thomas towards the open end of the pew. “I know it’s not official and all but we’re in a church and we’ve got time to kill.”

Thomas looks at him incredulously. “You want to practice?”

“Yeah, come on!” Alexander says. “We’ve got the time.” Thomas slips out into the aisle only for Alexander to grab his arm and start to lead him down towards the altar. Thomas is pulled a bit off balance, stumbling to keep up beside him. Where this sudden enthusiasm came from, Thomas doesn’t know. But then Alexander stops, suddenly still.

“Wait, we’re skipping a step,” Alexander mutters. He turns to Thomas, puts his hands on Thomas’ shoulders and looks up at him.

“What -”

“You gotta propose before you marry someone, don’tcha?” Alexander asks. Thomas’ breath catches in his throat as Alexander drops to one knee, letting his hands slide down to hold Thomas’. “So, Thomas Jefferson, love of my life, will you marry me?”

If Thomas was honest, this here was the _last_ way Thomas had ever expected this to go. He always figured he’d be the one on his knees, in some botanical garden, delivering some speech he’d written and rehearsed over and over again. But this was its own sort of perfect, he supposed, Alexander’s beautiful brown eyes looking up at him, shining with love even in the low light.

“Yes,” Thomas breathes, and Alexander breaks out into a smile. He jumps back to his feet, lets go of one of Thomas’ hands to pull him the rest of the way down the aisle.

“Okay, step one out of the way,” Alexander says, under his breath. Thomas lets the other man pull him up to the altar in a bit of a daze. In his mind’s eye he can see the whole thing as it _should_ be. _Thomas in all white, Alexander in black, a white flower pinned to his lapel, the sunlight streaming through the windows and the dozens of candles surrounding the altar lit up._

“I know we don’t have… well… anything that you need for a wedding,” Alexander is saying, “but we could pantomime I guess.”

_Philip grins at them, rings on a pillow in his hands. Laurens and James stand opposite one another, Laurens with his huge grin and James looking professional and stoic, slipping the smallest smile when he makes eye contact with Thomas. His Momma sits in the front pew, Washington on the other side with his wife. Ben winks at him from where he stands next to James. Lafayette has tears shining in their eyes and Eliza offers them a handkerchief. Martha’s at the organ as Steuben waits patiently with a bible in his hands at the altar._

“You wouldn’t happen to know the preacher’s lines?” Alexander asks, joking, as he gets them settled, facing each other at the altar. He goes to grab Thomas’ other hand, and then something on the altar catches his eye. “Oh, _fuck yeah_ ,” he breathes, reaching for the box of matches.

_Maria grins up at them from the pews, Jane at her side. The rest of Thomas’ siblings fill almost two rows themselves, all adults save for a little Peter and Sam who kick their legs in the air as they watch. Peggy shoots him a thumbs up and Angelica rolls her eyes at her sibling. Louis and his wife are there, as is Dolley. Abigail, Burr and the Theos take up their own pew, Theodosia bouncing little Teddy gently on her knees._

Alexander carefully lights the candles, catching one with a match before picking up the candle and using that to light the rest.

_Steuben starts speaking, reading from the bible and making jokes for the gathered people. Thomas isn’t paying attention. Alexander is looking at him with those big brown eyes and he can’t focus on anything else._

Alexander places the candle back in place and turns to Thomas. The light flickers against his face as he takes Thomas’ hands in his. “Okay, so it’s not like I just have the usual marriage vows memorized, so best guess here we go.” Alexander takes a breath and starts. “I, Alexander Hamilton -”

“- _Take you, Thomas, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish -”_

“- ‘Till death do us part,”

_Thomas lets his own vows tumble out of his mouth, following along with Steuben’s cues, eyes transfixed on the beauty before him. Alexander runs his thumbs across the backs of Thomas’ hands. Philip brings the rings forward and suddenly there’s cold metal on Thomas’ finger and a matching gold glint reflects the candlelight from Alexander’s hand._

“Don’t really have rings,” Alexander mutters, glancing about, as if churches keep spare wedding rings just lying about. He turns back to Thomas, squeezes his hands again. “Sorry, I guess we have to skip that part for now.”

_“You may now kiss the groom!”_ _Steuben announces, his voice echoing huge and jovial through the church. Thomas leans down, gathering Alexander in his arms, almost bending him over backwards as he kisses him hard. Alexander’s arms loop around Thomas’ neck as the room claps and cheers._

Alexander pulls back, hands planted on Thomas’ chest. “Okay there, love the enthusiasm.” Thomas rolls his eyes and just kisses him again.

_The reception is loud, everyone milling about and drinking. Thomas and Alexander are sat up at the wedding party table. Alexander holds his hand behind the table cloth as they watch their friends talk and laugh. Alexander’s jacket is gone, his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a ponytail now._

_“I can’t believe you wore that stupid hat,” Alexander says. Thomas grins._

_“You said if I kept it off for the ceremony I could wear it for the reception_ ,” _Thomas says._

_“It’s a white top hat,” he drawls._

_“I look good in it_ ,” _Thomas replies._

_“Ah, but I look better,” Ben jumps in, walking by the table with Maria on his arm. Without a second glance, he steals the hat from Thomas’ head and affixes it to his own. He winks at Thomas, ignoring the groom’s protests as he and his partner make their way to the punch table. Alexander laughs, bright and loud._

Alexander stands them back up straight, still held in Thomas’ arms. “We’ll do it right one day,” he says, almost wistfully.

_Laurens pounds his fist on the table as he and Jane swap stories. His momma fusses over the cake, watching carefully to make sure no one gets greedy early. Maria, white top hat now on her head, leans into Angelica’s side, sipping champagne. Lafayette and Louis chat in the corner._

“We’ll live a good life,” Alexander says. “I swear, once we’re out, we’re out for good.”

_Lafayette pulls Laurens down from the table with plans to try and get him as drunk as possible before his speech. Laurens swipes the hat from Maria and does shots with Lafayette at the bar. Washington sees, sighs, and stands to stop them before Laurens won’t be able to speak anymore. He pulls the hat from Laurens’ head and tosses it towards the pile of wedding gifts in the corner._

“We’ll stay in the countryside and safe,” Alexander says. “We’ll be okay.”

_There’s a ruckus as Thomas’ siblings have to pull Peter and Sam from the pile of presents, the youngest getting excited and wanting to tear the wrapping paper off themselves. Mrs. Washington pucks the white hat from Sam’s head before handing the squirming boy to his mother. Washington drags Laurens back to the bridal party table before rejoining his wife at a table with Mulligan. The two men both have a turn holding the hat, Washington running his fingers along the brim and Mulligan examining the fabric it’s made of._

“You and me.” Alexander stops, looking up at Thomas, his brows furrowed. “You with me now?”

_“Of, course,” Thomas says. “For forever.” Philip slinks between the tables, grabbing Thomas’ hat from where Mulligan left it unattended on the table. Alexander smiles and sips at his flute of champagne. Philip tries to sneak a bottle of beer, hiding it behind the white hat he now holds, only to have Martha pull both from his hands, and drop them off with Abigail for safe-keeping._

“Thomas, are you okay?” Alexander asks. Thomas nods.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. “If I’m with you -”

_“- I’m fine_.” _Abigail plays peek-a-boo with Teddy, hiding her face behind the hat. When Teddy reaches for it, fingers dirty with food, Theodosia makes sure to keep it out of the baby’s reach. Burr kisses her on the cheek. Peggy takes the hat when it’s offered to zir, trying to fit it over zir poof of hair._

Alexander frowns, hands coming up to hold Thomas’ face. He searches his eyes for a long moment before sighing. “I’ll get you better too,” he mutters.

_Peggy pops a bottle of champagne, hat falling from zir head. People shout in surprise as alcohol bubbles rain down on them, though no one sounds actually angry. Alexander leans into Thomas trying to avoid the spray, still managing to get splattered. Angelica pulls the bottle from Peggy’s hands and pours herself a glass from what remains._

“I love you Thomas, no matter how you are, but I _will_ help you get better.”

“I love you too Alexander,” Thomas says, the once-impossible words falling out so easy now.

_James taps his wine glass with a fork, and when he stands to make his speech, he starts off by asking the crowd to pass the hat back up. Soon, he’s wearing Thomas’ top hat, the white glowing almost like a beacon under the lights. James’ speech is short, but kind, almost heartwarming in how briskly he talks. Laurens’ speech about Alexander is nothing like James’, rambling and funny, Laurens swaying slightly on his feet all the while, his hair wet from Peggy’s champagne shower._

Alexander pulls on Thomas’ shirt, urging him down for another kiss. Thomas obliges -

_And then they’re being urged to dance. Steuben as MC is telling them it’s time to open up the dance floor. Thomas tries to finally steal his hat back but somehow it ends up on Alexander’s head. The opening strains of a slow song start up and Thomas finds that Alexander is leading. Alexander smiles. They turn in slow circles, and the whole world narrows to just them._

_“I love you so much,” Thomas says. Alexander echoes him. They dance and it’s just them. It’s just Alexander, holding him close, humming along to the song, eyes on the wall somewhere over Thomas’ shoulder-_

Alexander pushes him to the ground, and Thomas hits the floor hard. The party’s gone silent at the sound of another champagne bottle going off. _Peggy must have gotten ahold of another bottle_. He looks up, smiling, to find the reception gone.

They’re in a church, but the cold, dark one of reality. No one moves in the aftermath of the sound, Thomas’ brain trying to catch up with what’s actually happening around him - that couldn’t have been a gunshot, could it? Not in a church -

Alexander stumbles back a step, breaking the still moment. Burr stands there, beside a statue of Saint Epipodius, gun still smoking in his hand. His eyes wide, flicking between Thomas and Alexander, realization and panic in his expression.

Thomas scrambles to his feet, moving towards the man. Instantly, Burr flees, disappearing behind a door in the side of the church. It shuts with a heavy _thud_ , and then silence rules again. Thomas takes a breath, feels for his gun, finds nothing but _Burr shot at them so -_

Alexander grabs onto Thomas’ wrist, and Thomas stops short. The grip on his arm is tight enough to hurt. He turns, and finds Alexander leaning onto the altar with a stiff arm, face twisted in pain and concentration.

There’s a bloody, angry, black hole in his chest.

Thomas’ heart stops. Alexander looks up. “Hey, that bastard might not be the priority anymore,” he says, and then his arm buckles and he slips slightly. Thomas is there in a heartbeat, sliding his hands around Alexander’s body, finding the best way to keep him from falling. He only manages to slow Alexander’s fall, getting him sat up against the altar. “Okay, here, we’re okay,” Alexander murmurs, speaking almost to himself more than he is Thomas.

Thomas kneels on the ground beside him, fingers already flitting around Alexander’s chest. Alexander winces as Thomas’ fingers catch on the edge of the bullet wound. He slides his hand around the back but finds no exit wound. _Less blood, more trauma_.

“Fuck,” Alexander breathes, curling in on himself. His own hand comes up to press at his bleeding chest, and he leans his head back on the altar. He looks up at Thomas, must see the worry and fear on his face, because he manages to smile. “No, Thomas, I’m okay. It’s just like when I got shot the shoulder, yeah? Just a little farther down -” he sucks in a harsh breath, cutting off his words.

“How bad does it hurt?” Thomas asks, trying to recall anything that could help Alexander. Alexander’s wry smile returns.

“Like I’m getting little puppy kisses on my chest,” Alexander says. He presses his hand harder to his chest and tries to push himself into a standing position, only to wince in pain and fall against the altar again. “I’m alright, just give me a second.”

“No, you gotta stay still,” Thomas says. He places one of his hands over Alexander’s where the wound is and presses down as hard as he dares. Alexander’s chest is heaving with hard breaths.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Alexander repeats. “We’ll get this thing to stop bleeding and go after Burr, yeah? Fucker’s got something to answer for.”

Thomas nods, watching the blood seep through his fingers. It seemingly pours from Alexander’s chest, coating their hands, Alexander’s dark shirt, and it starts to collect on the floor. Alexander takes a few more deep breaths, jaw clenched tightly against the pain. He starts shifting again, trying to stand, and Thomas grabs onto his arm.

“No, you have to stay still until the bleeding stops,” Thomas protests. Alexander doesn’t listen, trying to raise himself to his knees but sort of ends up slumping forward instead.

“I can do this,” Alexander breathes. “I’ve gotta.” Thomas opens his mouth to protest, but Alexander plants his hand on the ground and tries to stand one last time. He raises his torso up, but can’t get his legs underneath him, and he falls against Thomas with a cry.

“Damn it!” Alexander shouts. “Fucking hell, I can’t -” he cuts off, looking down at his legs with wide eyes. “My legs are numb,” he says, voice suddenly quiet. Thomas pulls him closer, holding him tightly in an attempt to stop the blood from flowing.

“You’ll be okay, it’s just shock,” Thomas says. Alexander stares down at his own body, eyes dancing with thoughts unsaid. “Just gotta stop the bleeding, it’s fine.” Thomas presses his lips against the side of Alexander’s head, holding him closer even as his breathing picks up.

“Thomas, Thomas I can’t…” Alexander trails, his free hand shoots out to hold one of his legs, rubbing at it desperately. “I can’t feel my damn legs,” he says. Thomas pulls him the rest of the way into his lap. Whatever’s wrong with Alexander’s legs will certainly fix itself once he stops losing blood. Then, Alexander starts to cough, ugly wet hacks that send chills down Thomas’ spine. Alexander covers his mouth with his hand, and when he pulls it away, he goes completely still for a moment. Thomas starts to rock gently back and forth. Everything’s going to be alright, _everything’s -_

“No,” Alexander breathes, “No, no, no no _no!_ ” He ends in a shout, hitting his now-bloodied hand against the ground. “Fuck! No! We were so damn close!”

“It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay,” Thomas repeats, pressing the words into Alexander’s skin with his lips, trying to ignore how the other man has started to shake. His breath hitches, coming fast and uneven.

“We were so close! We were almost out!’ Alexander says, screaming at something - what, exactly, Thomas doesn’t know - with a cracking voice. “It’s not fucking fair!” He lurches forward, but Thomas holds him tight. Alexander’s crying now, angry tears starting to roll down his face.

“Alexander, please stop yelling, don’t move,” Thomas says. “You’re gonna make it worse.” Alexander fights against his hold for just a moment before collapsing against Thomas’ chest. He’s breathing hard, eyes wide and cheeks wet. There’s blood spattered behind his teeth, the same deep color now streaked across the church floor and soaking into Thomas’ clothing.

“We almost -” Alexander coughs, sending blood flying from his mouth. Thomas’ heart is pounding in his ears as he lifts his hand to check Alexander’s wound - finding the worst. The blood is still flowing, and he presses his hand back down quickly.

“We’re gonna make it still, okay? Just a little setback, you’re fine,” Thomas repeats. “You’re gonna be fine, you _have_ to be fine, we’re gonna make it out and get married.”

Alexander’s hacking fit subsides as Thomas rambles, looking up at him. There’s rage buried in his eyes that melts into something else as they make eye contact. “Thomas,” Alexander breathes, “Thomas look at me.”

“I’m right here, you’re gonna be fine,” Thomas says, pulling his eyes away from the covered wound and holding him up and as close as possible. “Stop talking, save your strength. I’ve got you, you’ll be okay.”

Alexander’s chest heaves, Thomas can almost feel Alexander’s heart beat and flutter underneath his hand. Alexander’s eyes flick back and forth across his face.

“We should have left when you said,” Alexander says. “Back at the hotel. You said we had to go and I - I should have listened.”

“Doesn’t matter now, we’re fine,” Thomas says shaking his head. “We’re getting away now.” Alexander offers him half a smile, his free hand coming up to hold Thomas’ cheek.

“You’re still so handsome,” Alexander says. “The prettiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Not the time, please, save your words,” Thomas pleads, grabbing Alexander’s hand. It too is blood-slick, but Thomas keeps a tight grip on it. Alexander’s returning grip is frighteningly weak.

“I love you,” Alexander says. “Don’t forget that. Don’t forget _me_.”

“Why would I when you’re coming with me?” Thomas asks, holding onto every shred of denial he possibly can. “You said we’re getting away, that it’s gonna be me and you.”

“Promise me you’re not gonna forget me,” Alexander insists. “You can’t forget.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Thomas assures him, “You’ll be alright. The bleeding is slowing I think.”

Alexander’s smile turns even more bitter. He opens his mouth to say something else, but just ends up coughing blood onto Thomas’ face. It’s warm and sticky, but Thomas doesn’t dare let go of Alexander to wipe it away.

“Tell me about Monticello,” Alexander says when he can speak again. Thomas blinks, the change in topic catching him off guard. “I’ll never see it -”

“- yes, you will -”

“-not if… if we go to France,” Alexander says. There’s a line of blood running down his chin, but his gaze is steady as he looks up into Thomas’ eyes. Thomas lets out a breath.

“It’s huge. Three stories, including the basement,” he says. “Gardens as far as the eye can see. The most beautiful flowers you’ve ever seen.” He shuts his eyes for just a moment, just to recall the view of it all, and then looks back down at Alexander. “Rows and rows of blossoms. It’s the prettiest in spring, but there are flowers all the way until winter. Trees that make the best shade for picnics.”

Thomas tells Alexander about Monticello, about the gardens and the large windows that light up the house with sunlight. About how you can raise seven children in one home and never want for space. About the rolling hills and planes and the fresh air and everything Thomas knew his entire life and -

Thomas watches as Alexander’s eyes turn hazy, the glint of light in them fading until it’s gone. “The sunrise from the… east rooms…” Thomas trails as he waits for Alexander to blink. Waits for a muscle to twitch or his chest to rise or fall.

When Alexander doesn’t, Thomas squeezes his hand. “Alexander, hey,” he murmurs, “you have to hear about the sunrise. You have to - please - just move. Alexander - Alex - wake up please, it’s time to - to go to France, the - the bleeding’s stopped -” Thomas’ throat closes on him suddenly. His words fail him as he stares down at Alexander’s limp, bloodied form.

And then he tucks his head into Alexander’s chest and makes this _sound_. It’s a sound Thomas has heard from others but never could have reproduced before. It sounds primal, something almost inhuman. It tears its way out of Thomas’ throat with the force of a thousand burning suns, scorching Thomas from the inside and lighting up the church with its echoes.

There’s no heartbeat under his face where it’s pressed into Alexander, no hollow sound of breath as Thomas wails. The wailing turns to sobs as he starts to cry. Tears wet Alexander’s blood-soaked shirt and Thomas clutches him as tightly as he can manage.

How long Thomas stays there, knelt before the altar holding his entire future in his arms, he doesn’t know. His tears run dry, but he doesn’t stop sobbing. He can feel Alexander turn cold in his arms, any hint of living heat fading in the cool night. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, even as he hears the sound of the church doors opening, and a crack of moonlight comes pouring through.

“Thomas?” Comes a voice, but Thomas just holds onto Alexander’s slowly stiffening body tighter. The low keening sound that comes out of his throat is the only thing he can manage, and even then, it’s not meant as an acknowledgement to whomever is in the room. Thomas cradles Alexander’s face into his shoulder and neck, still rocking back and forth, like he’s simply lulling Alexander to sleep.

Hands come down on Thomas’ arms and Thomas wails, curling tight against the pressure trying to force him up. “Thomas, look at me,” the voice says, a low rumble that a corner of Thomas’ brain recognizes. He still shakes his head, face pressed into Alexander. The hands slide down to grab his face and force it upwards.

“Thomas, let go of him,” Steuben says quietly. Thomas shakes his head, a quiet whimper all he can manage. “Thomas, please,” Steuben pleads. “He’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're not done yet. We've still got a few more chapters to go folks.
> 
> To the person who called Burr killing Alex in this manner (I'm Just Here to Comment) - I want you to know I've been dying since you theorized it. Even if you backtracked a little last chapter, I was solidly impressed with how well you picked up on the foreshadowing and the little hints. Also I Hate You. Not really I've just been screaming about how someone figured out my endgame early. I wanted so bad to say something to you but I knew if I did I would either have to flat out lie to my readers or confirm your hypothesis, which neither of those things I wanted to do, so kudos to you here and now, you get five internet cookies.
> 
> Historical/religious notes:
> 
> After Hamilton was shot, when the doctor on site asked him how he felt, reportedly his first answer was that his 'lower extremities were cold.' Man's shot and bleeding to death in a boat in New Jersey and the first thing he complains about are his legs. Fuckin hell. Hamilton would live for a day, and would eventually die of his wounds sustained in the duel, surrounded by his family.
> 
> Catholic churches usually have statues of angels inside them, not of the saints. I wrote saints before someone corrected me, but I kept it for theming/character associating purposes.
> 
> Historical Alexander Hamilton was raised Presbyterian, and was a devoted Christian in his early life. He never stopped practicing, but his rigorous praying and strict worshiping habits began to fall away in his middle adult years. After Philip's death, Hamilton began to attend church at an Episcopalian church, and would return to his original heavy faith until he died.
> 
> Traditional Santeria is a separate religion from Catholicism, but during the height of the slave trade, practitioners doubled the Catholic Saints to Orishas in order to conceal the practice of Santeria from slavers. Modern Santeria now has major ties to Catholicism that grew from this practice, as the Catholic Saints and the Orishas are generally considered one and the same anymore. As such, many Santeria practitioners still believe in the Catholic God and Saints, as well as the Orishas.
> 
> St. Epipodius is an early Catholic Saint, patron of a few things including Victims of Betrayal. He's actually one of a duo, the other being St. Alexander. The story goes they were early practitioners of the Christian faith, forced into hiding under Roman rule. They were betrayed and turned over to authorities by a servant, leading to both their deaths. I Literally Couldn't Have Gotten Luckier With The Names.
> 
> Despite my Catholic early childhood, I don't know many of the details of either faith. If I've done something grievously wrong in what I've written about either practice at any point in the story, please speak up and let me know. I tried my best, but can only learn. 
> 
> See you Friday


	69. The End Of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I almost wish I was still doing weird chapter titles so I could make a joke about the sex number

_He’s dead_.

 _Alexander is dead_.

Thomas’ brain can’t process anything else but that, over and over again. Steuben is speaking to him, his hands firm and warm against Thomas’ face, but Thomas can’t hear anything. It’s not until Steuben reaches down and starts to try and pry Thomas’ arms off Alexander’s body - _his dead, limp, cold body_ \- that Thomas reacts to anything.

“No!” Thomas shouts, keeping his hold as tight as possible. He can’t let go, not of Alexander. Steuben pulls harder at his arms, managing to pull one off.

“Thomas, you have to let go,” Steuben is saying. “He’s gone, and you have to put him down, okay?” Thomas pulls his arm from Steuben’s hold, and tries to grab back onto Alexander. Steuben fights him, going around to try and pull Thomas off from behind.

“No, I - I -” Thomas’ breath hitches as he stares down at Alexander’s face. Alexander’s eyes look back, but they’re empty. “I - don’t make me leave him -” But Steuben is much larger, much stronger than Thomas. Steuben pulls Thomas up away from Alexander, leaving his body to fall lifelessly against the ground. “ _No!_ ”

“Thomas, I know.” Steuben is saying, even as Thomas struggles against his hold. He’s lifted into the air, arms and legs flailing as he fights Steuben. He’s yelling, words tumbling out of his mouth mindlessly. “I know, I know, _I know!_ ” Steuben repeats, his voice getting steadily louder until they’re both shouting, their voices filling the space and beating against Thomas’ head. The world is spinning around him, everything in freefall.

Steuben carries him, literally kicking and screaming, down the aisle, away from the altar and where Alexander lies in his own blood, head lolled off to the side. His dead face is still looking in Thomas’ direction, even as Steuben turns around so he walks forward towards the door, still carrying Thomas.

Thomas pulls at Steuben’s arms, kicks uselessly at his legs, squirms, trying to even just turn around in his arms and getting nowhere. He has to get free, has to get back to Alexander. They’re both still shouting -

“ _Let me go!”_

"I know, I know -”

“Put me down, I can’t leave him -”

“I know!”

“I need -”

“ _I know!_ ” Steuben roars, finally putting Thomas’ feet on the ground. Nothing feels solid - it’s all hazy, numb, like Thomas is floating in murky water. Steuben stands him up and turns Thomas around so they’re face to face, his fingers digging painfully into Thomas’ shoulders. “Thomas, I know, but you have to _go_.”

Thomas fights to pull away, trying to lean and see around the hulking figure of Steuben. “I have to stay with Alexan-”

Steuben shakes him, actually _shakes_ him, snapping Thomas’ attention directly to him. For the first time, something is sharp, clear in Thomas’ perception and it’s Steuben’s voice. “No, Thomas, you _have_ to _go_. Now.”

“I -”

“Thomas, listen to me.” Steuben glances towards the church doors for a moment. “I _know_. I’m sorry about Hamilton. You can break down later, but if you don’t start running _right now_ , you won’t get away, okay?”

Thomas looks up at him, breathing hard. “Run?” He asks, not understanding. Steuben nods.

“Run, Thomas.” His eyes keep flicking up towards the door, and then back down at Thomas. His gaze is hard, almost desperate. “Run as fast and as far away as you can.”

“Why?” Thomas asks. Steuben’s grip gets impossibly tighter.

“Because I - I can’t watch you die. If I arrest you, then either you’d get put to _death_ or you’d get life in prison, and you wouldn’t survive prison for very long.”

Thomas shakes his head. “ _Why_?” He asks again. Throat closing again. “Why run? Why…” he looks up at Steuben. Steuben looks back at him with shock, brows furrowed.

“You have to live Thomas,” Steuben says. “Something has to survive this mess.”

“I -” Thomas swallows thickly, trying not to choke on his words. “I’m already dead Fredrick,” he says. Steuben shakes his head.

“You can still get out, Thomas -”

“I’m _already dead!_ ” Thomas says again, repeating the only thing his mind _knows_ to be true. “I’m already dead, I’m -”

“No, no you’re not,” Steuben says, suddenly much angrier, harsh emotion slipping out from behind Steuben’s fractured mask of stern concern. “You’re still breathing, you’re still talking. That’s more than you can say for Ben or Martha or Louis. More than Hamilton or Washington or anyone else who’s died. You’re alive Thomas. You, me, Sally, we might be the only ones left. You can still make it.”

Thomas’ breath hitches, knowing what name Steuben skipped. His mind latches onto it. “James.”

Steuben frowns, lips pressed together, gaze searching Thomas’ face before he speaks: “James was shot tonight, that’s all I know, you have -”

“I shot James.”

Steuben stills, his grip on Thomas’ arms turning so hard Thomas wonders faintly if he’ll break a bone. Thomas can see the color drain from his face, and Steuben takes a deep breath. When he speaks, it’s quiet, every vocal tone holding any hint of emotion back. “You have to go.”

“I -”

“Thomas, you have to go. Do you have any money?”

Thomas nods, silently. The faraway portion of his brain - the one still working his lungs and heart - starts to take over, the rest of his pain going numb underneath the sudden cold logic. His getaway bag, the one the Schuyler sisters still have, has what funds he has. “Enough,” he says by way of answer. Steuben nods.

“A weapon?”

Thomas glances down at himself. “I lost mine, I think.” The fuzzy world around him is taking shape, the ground is no longer bucking under his feet.

“Did - did Alexander have one?” Steuben asks. Thomas nods again. “Take that one, then, okay? There should be another way out of this building…”

“Side door,” Thomas says. “By the altar. Burr got out that way.”

Steuben’s eyes flash. “Aaron Burr was here?” Thomas nods again.

“He shot Alexander,” Thomas says. _Aaron Burr shot Alexander._ The single fact that had sent the hurricane spinning in his head freezes the wind in place. His whole existence floats in air, suspended. It’s almost as if something has hit the pause button in Thomas’ head, leaving him breathless and weightless and cold. “I’m going to kill him,” Thomas says, the words simple. Everything else: the pain, the guilt, the sorrow; it all gets put on hold. _He’s going to kill Aaron Burr_.

Steuben shakes his head. “No, Thomas. You don’t have time to do anything stupid like that,” he says. “You have to start moving _now_.”

But Thomas isn’t listening. Everything is clear now. The solid lines of the building around him, the bright candlelight casting harsh shadows around him. Steuben is still talking, outlining Thomas’ escape route, but all Thomas is thinking about where Burr must have gone. _Out the side door -_

“ - Go, Thomas!” Steuben steps aside, and pushes Thomas towards the altar. He stumbles a few steps before he easily catches himself. He glances back at Steuben, who motions towards the side door urgently.

Thomas walks down the aisle again, footsteps ringing in his ears. Alexander’s bloody body still lies crumpled on the floor where he was left. What that means to Thomas, what it means to his fractured mind, doesn’t matter right now. It’s frozen, crystallized in Thomas’ head as nothing more than a fact; Alexander is dead. Aaron Burr shot him. Thomas is going to kill Aaron burr.

He stops, for just a moment, crouching down to carefully remove Alexander’s pistol from where it’s tucked into the side of his jeans. It slips free easy, a silencer already attached to the end. A small lock of hair had come loose from Alexander’s ponytail, and Thomas gently tucks it behind his ear.

He lets his eyes ghost across Alexander one last time. He looks like a forgotten doll almost. He’s so small without that huge personality and energy that defined him. The only fire in his eyes is the reflected candlelight - a macabre simulacrum of the bonfires that would shine there.

It’s Alexander’s body, but it doesn’t quite _feel_ like Alexander’s body. It too floats in that cold space Thomas isn’t going to prod at until after Burr is dead. He hangs his head, shuts his eyes for a moment. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna finish this Alex,” he mutters, then opens his eyes. Thomas’ hands are steady as he gently closes Alexander’s eyes, then leans down and gently presses a final kiss to his forehead.

He stands, feeling every single little muscle movement as he does so. He’s so sharply aware of everything in his body - the way his heart beats, air rushing in and out of his lungs, he keenly feels the very clothes on his body. The cold of Alexander’s gun in his hands bites at his fingers.

“Thomas,” Steuben says. Thomas looks up to find the man watching him carefully. “Go.” Thomas nods, but stands still for just another moment, looking down at Alexander

“Take care of him,” Thomas says, finally looking up at Steuben. “Please, take care of him.”

“Of course,” Steuben responds. Thomas finally turns away from Alexander’s body, letting out a deep breath. He’ll deal with it when the hurricane starts again. He crosses to the door in a few short steps, reaches one hand out for the doorknob -

“Good luck,” Steuben offers. Thomas takes a breath.

“You too.”

There’s no other goodbye to have, not as Thomas yanks open the door and finds himself in a darkened hallway. It shuts behind him and he’s alone. As his eyes adjust, he finds the dimmest of light coming from his right. It just illuminates the crack under a door, and Thomas realizes that he’s likely found his way out.

The back door to the church opens into a small alley that leads to the street. On the other side is the high chain-link fence and barbed wire of the edge of the Redcoat compound. Thomas can hear gunshots coming from that direction, and for a moment considers the idea that Burr went back inside.

If he did, so be it. Thomas will just have to follow him in there. He takes a breath, eyeing the front entrance. There’s a front of men there, guards holding down the fort, a few police scattered on Thomas’ side of the street, watching. The police must finally be making gains in the city blocks around the compound. If Thomas is to get in there and out, he has to move quickly -

The sound of glass shattering catches Thomas off guard, and he whirls, looking to the right and away from the compound. He tightens his grip on his gun, eyes flicking back and forth between the fence and the direction the sound came from. His instincts are screaming at him to look, to make sure there’s no danger he can’t see.

And then he remembers that the Redcoat drag strip and storage lockers are on the right side of the compound, and there’s going to be a third entrance in that direction. Thomas and Alexander had escaped that way once before, after all. He would just have to find it again.

So Thomas walks towards the sound, sticking to the front of the buildings beside him. Even if it was just a cat, Thomas needs to know what he’s putting behind him. He crosses a street, glancing down every alley and checking each corner.

As he gets closer to the left side of the compound, Thomas can hear muttering coming from down one of the alleys. With one eye watching the fence beside him, Thomas slides up to the entrance of the alley, back pressed to the wall. Here, he can hear the voice distinctly, his senses still sharp.

“...I basically kept the deal!... No, King’s lost his mind, I’ve got to placate him first,” Burr is muttering to himself, pacing the alley. There’s a shattered bottle on the ground, green glass scattered across the sidewalk. Burr lets out a noise of frustration, and he grabs a beer bottle from a recycling bin and sends it hurling at the wall.

It shatters in a shower of glass shards, and Burr buries his face in his hands. “Oh, how am I going to sell this? He wanted _Hamilton_ to himself, and I went and -”

“Killed him?” Thomas asks, stepping out into the alley. Burr’s head jerks up, eyes wide. A moment later, Burr’s hand comes up at Thomas is looking down the barrel of his gun. But Burr’s hand shakes, hard enough that Thomas can see. Thomas takes a step towards him and Burr takes a quick step back. “What’s this _deal_ you made?”

“Jefferson -” Burr cuts off as Thomas raises his gun, pointing it directly at him. He stops, takes a breath to compose himself, and looks at Thomas as coolly as he can manage. “I made a mistake -”

“What deal?” Thomas interrupts, his voice cold, monotone. He’s not even angry. There’s nothing but steely determination to kill this man. He flicks the safety, making sure it’s off. Burr sucks in a breath.

“No, you don’t understand, I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“What deal did you make?” Thomas asks. Burr swallows. Thomas takes another step forward, he’s almost in reaching distance, but this time Burr holds his ground.

“Jefferson, listen to me,” Burr says. “It was the only way to save Teddy -”

“We had a plan,” Thomas responds. “What deal did you make Burr?” Burr doesn’t respond, eyes glued to the gun in Thomas’ hand. Thomas grabs a fist full of Burr’s shirt and pushes him up against the wall. “What was the deal Aaron?!”

“It was falling apart,” Burr says, shrinking into the wall, his gun clattering to the ground.  “King gave me an opportunity to get my daughter back!” Burr says. “Tell me you wouldn’t have taken the deal in my position.”

“ _What deal_?” Thomas asks, jaw clenched. He’s almost on Burr now. “Did you trade Alexander’s life for Teddy’s?”

“No,” Burr says, “I traded yours.”

Thomas stops, taking a step back, trying to process. Burr slumps against the wall when Thomas lets him go, cowering away from Thomas, reaching down to steady himself. Thomas’ gaze falls to the ground as it hits him. Alexander pushed Thomas out of the way. He must have seen Burr in the church, taking aim.

Alexander died saving Thomas.

In the corner of his vision, Thomas sees Burr straighten, and it’s only the low flash of light on metal that makes Thomas react. His hand shoots out, and grabs the muzzle of Burr’s gun. He twists it easily out of Burr’s grip, throws it and his own gun down the alley, and then punches him _hard_ across the face. Burr goes sprawling, hitting the ground on all fours.

“Get up,” Thomas snaps. “Face the consequences.” Burr takes a shuddering breath, and struggles to his feet. For a moment, it looks like he’s simply about to speak, but Thomas sees where he balls his fist and tenses, ready to swing.

Something inside Thomas snaps. Everything stays suspended in his head, but he’s suddenly so viciously angry. Rage boils inside his stomach like someone lit a fire in his body and Thomas sees red.

It’s almost like he’s not in control as he grabs Burr’s hand, spins him around, and twists his arm until it snaps. Whoever _is_ in control of his body is very good at hurting another man. Even as Burr shouts in pain from his broken arm, Thomas doesn’t relent. He punches, kicks, _beats_ Burr down with his bare hands.

At some point Burr ends up on the ground, struggling to get out from beneath Thomas. Thomas fights hard and fights dirty, hitting and scratching until he sees blood well underneath his fingernails. If Burr is fighting back, if he’s landing blows Thomas doesn’t notice. He digs his fingers into Burr’s eyes and the other man howls.

It’s far from a fair fight, even for the few spare moments Burr manages to knock Thomas off balance and scramble away. Thomas is on him too quickly, hitting Burr’s head into the wall of the alley and pushing him to the ground. He digs his foot into Burr’s side, kicking until he feels ribs crunch beneath his heel. Burr just curls up tightly, his good arm trying to protect his head.

Breathing hard, Thomas stomps one last time on his chest, feeling it cave sickeningly under the impact. Then he stops, and looks down. Burr is bloody, body shaking and one arm bent and a bad angle. He looks down at the man he just beat half to death and he almost feels better.

“Where’s King?” Thomas asks. Burr groans and Thomas is pressing into Burr’s chest.

“Warehouse, in the compound,” Burr gasps out. Thomas nods, goes to step back, but instead takes the time to press his foot to the break in Burr’s arm. The gasp and moan of pain is enough for Thomas, and he finally turns around to leave.

Thomas picks up Alexander’s gun from where he had thrown it, and starts to walk away down the alley. Behind him, he hears Burr start to shift, carefully and slowly moving. “What?” Burr asks, voice cracked and strained. “Just going to leave me like this?”

“Either the Redcoats find you or the cops do,” Thomas responds. “Either way, I’ll let them take care of you.” He can hear Burr struggle to his feet, breath hard and gasping. Thomas glances back once to see Burr spit teeth onto the ground, and start to hobble towards where his gun lies a few feet away. He stops above it, arm tucked into his stomach, blood dripping from his nose. He starts bend over, grimacing, good hand outstretched. Burr’s fingers graze the side of the weapon -

“Actually, you know what?” Thomas asks, stopping. Burr freezes at the same moment, eyes wide. “I’ve got one last question. Were you really trying to shoot _me_ back in the church?” Burr takes a breath, and nods slowly.

Thomas whirls, and in a blink he has Burr pinned to the wall, gun leveled between his eyes. Burr’s calm mask slips away, fear shining through, the most emotion Thomas has ever seen the man give.

“No, please,” Burr says. “I’m the only thing Teddy has left.” Thomas starts to squeeze the trigger and Burr panics, one hand scrambling at Thomas’ arms, legs kicking, looking for _something_ to hit, something to free him. Thomas is stronger, his hold on Burr vice tight.

“You should have had better aim,” Thomas responds, and pulls the trigger.

Thomas doesn’t even flinch when the hot spray of blood hits his face. His ears are ringing in the aftermath of the gunshot, harsh and loud. The metallic smell floods his nose as he takes a step back and lets Burr’s body fall to the ground. Thomas looks down at the gun in his hand, contemplates checking what kind of bullets Alexander was using - most of Burr’s face and head is just gone.

After a moment, Thomas decides he doesn’t care. Whatever they are, they did the job. Blood is spilling onto the ground, Thomas steps back away from it before any more of it gets on his shoes. With his sleeve he wipes his face as best he can. Turning to leave the alley, Thomas finds himself looking up at the Redcoat fence again. He takes slow, even steps back to the street, thinking -

“You once told me that headshots are inefficient,” comes a familiar voice from Thomas’ left. Thomas starts, head snapping in that direction. His heart stops when he finds Alexander standing there, leaning up against a wall. “But it sure seems like you have a preference for them. What’s it now, two dramatic close-up head explosions?” Alexander asks, looking over at him with a gleam in his eye.

There’s no blood on him anywhere, no sucking angry hole in his chest. Thomas looks down at him, his frozen existence struggling to understand what this could mean. “They’re fine at close range,” is all Thomas can say. Alexander quirks his lip.

“Execution range, you mean,” he says. Thomas’ brow furrows, eyes flicking up and down in confusion. Alexander chuckles, taking a step forward. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the plan now?”

“King,” Thomas says. “He made the deal with Burr.” Alexander smiles.

“Good luck with that,” he says. “There’s a whole compound between you and him full of people willing to kill you on sight.”

“Right entrance,” Thomas says. “Should be the least guarded.”

Alexander cocks an eyebrow. “There’s a third entrance?” he asks. Thomas nods.

“The one you and I got out of. A little door in the fence.”

Alexander looks up at the fence, purses his lips, and nods. “Fair enough. Go for it.” He jerks his head in the direction of the fence, looking over at Thomas expectantly. Thomas reaches out with one hand, the one not holding the gun. The moment he gets to the point he should be touching Alexander, the other man vanishes. Thomas is left with nothing but air, his hand hanging out in empty space.

Thomas nods to himself, quietly. “Okay,” he mutters to himself, pulling his hand back into his body. Just one more thing he has to deal with later. He turns away from where Alexander stood and starts to make his way further down the street.

Thomas is unaccosted all the way to the end of the compound, where the fence turns a corner. He was right, there was no one on this side they day Maria died, and there’s no one here now. Thomas crosses the street and finds the single chain-link door without too much problem. The padlock Thomas had once destroyed to escape is still in broken ruin on the ground.

It seems like a massive oversight on the part of the Redcoats, but Thomas isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He pushes the door open, the sound of metal on metal scraping on Thomas’ ears. There’s no one in sight, this entrance forgotten. He makes his way past the storage units, eyes on a constant sweep, looking for threats. He’s halfway to the main compound when he encounters the first Redcoat.

It’s over before the other man can even open his mouth, raise a weapon, do _anything_. Thomas drops him with a single shot to his chest, and he makes a single tally mark in the corner of his mind. There’s four tallies before Thomas makes to the warehouse, his approach masked by the fire being exchanged between the police and what handful of Redcoats remain.

Everything really is going to be over tonight.

Thomas slides around the back of the warehouse and goes for the door connected to the dock. He barely spares a moment before pushing it open and darting into the space. A man who must have been standing guard beside the door shouts in surprise, then pain as Thomas puts a bullet into his knee. Thomas pulls him in front of him, like a human shield, just as other men come to see what’s happening.

He runs out of bullets, grabs the poor dead man he’s holding up as cover’s weapon and continues firing. His mind is blissfully blank, nothing but instinct and training and sheer determination working his body. His hand thrums with shock from the recoil of strange guns, but he keeps going.

There are six bodies, including Thomas’ shield, on the floor before it’s over. Thomas is the only one left standing, and the tally in his head increases to ten. He’ll have to add everyone else he’s killed later, but again, for later. There’s so much for later. He grabs Alexander’s gun from where he dropped it, checks the make against the one he stole from the dead Redcoat, and reloads Alexander’s with the other gun’s bullets.

Now that the shooting has stopped, the only sound in the warehouse is his own footsteps. The near-silence is almost deafening, Thomas’ ears straining for more sound. But there’s nothing. He steps over a body with a familiar dot pattern tattooed on his cheek without a second glance.

He reaches that familiar door, the break in the shelves. Thomas takes a breath, one long one, and then reaches for the doorknob. The fact it opens only registers in his head as a possible trap, but he goes in anyway. If this is a trap, then so be it. He slips inside, closes the door, and flicks the lock shut.

“Took you quite a while, Aaron,” King says. He’s sat at that huge desk, hunched over, forehead pressed to the wood. There’s a gun on the wood, pointed in King’s direction. His shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths, and it seems like he’s fidgeting with something under the desk. Thomas lifts his weapon and takes aim before speaking.

“Not quite,” Thomas says. King stops, and slowly raises his head. They make eye contact, and a slow smiles creeps across King’s face.

“Oh, hello there,” King says, straining to keep his face up. There’s an undercurrent of laughter in his voice, like he’s absolutely _delighted_ to see Thomas from down the barrel of a gun. He sits up, and Thomas can see he’s holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

King stands, and Thomas follows his face with his sights. He sort of chuckles to himself as he pulls out a cig from the pack, sticks it between his teeth, and takes a few sauntering steps towards Thomas. “Want one?” he says, offering the pack.

“I don’t smoke,” Thomas responds. King shrugs, the smile not slipping.

“Good, these things will kill you.” King lights it in a single try, and he puts both the lighter and the cigarette in his pockets. “What’s going on Thomas, how have you been?”

“What a dick,” Alexander says. Thomas glances over towards his voice and finds Alexander leaning up against the door, head cocked to the side. He watches King with narrowed eyes. “Eyes on the target Thomas,” he says.

“Right,” Thomas responds, turning back around. King cocks his head, peering around Thomas, smile faltering a bit. “Tell me one thing,” he says to King. King’s dead eyes come back to Thomas’.

“Yes?”

“You tried to have Burr kill me,” Thomas says. King takes a drag, looking at Thomas with one arm crossed over his chest.

“That’s not a question,” Alexander pipes up.

“I’m asking him to confirm or deny,” Thomas says. King blinks, brows furrowing.

“Why, yes, that was the deal,” he says slowly. “Though, it seems Aaron didn’t come through with his side of things. Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Thomas says. King just hums in response.

“Good riddance,” Alexander spits. Thomas’ flicks his eyes over to find that Alexander’s come up to stand beside him now. King’s eyes follow as he takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Is dear Alexander keeping watch outside?” King asks, a curious lilt to his voice. Thomas grits his jaw and lets out a breath.

“No,” he says. “He’s dead.” King blinks, eyebrows shooting up.

“He’d dead?”

“Burr was a shit shot,” Thomas explains. King nods.

“Well, if I’m honest Thomas, I didn’t really want to ever see you again. The plan was to make Alexander watch you die, and then kill him nice and slow,” King says.

“Why?” Thomas asks, and before King can speak, Alexander does.

“He thinks I killed Sammy,” Alexander says. Thomas nods.

“Seems that he does,” Thomas says, running over the first part of King’s sentence. “He still went after the wrong person.”

“I’m sorry?” King asks.

“What a fucking idiot,” Alexander says, chuckling. Thomas shrugs, glances over to him.

“Maybe he just doesn’t know how brains work,” he says. Suddenly, King stomps his foot, and Thomas looks over to find a painful looking smile on his face.

“Who are you talking to?” King demands. Thomas shrugs again.

“Alexander.”

For the first time, something deep in King’s dead eyes flashes. “You said he was dead.”

“He is,” Thomas says, and Alexander sighs. King takes a step back, realization playing out across his face. His eyes jump to the gun, and Thomas cocks his. King looks back at Thomas, and then the shaky smile across his face spreads wider.

“Do you remember when we first met, Thomas?” King asks. “I asked you for one favor. One itty bitty favor. If you had just done like I asked, everything would have been squared away. But no. You decided to play hero -”

“I know this is all my fault,” Thomas says. King’s smile solidifies.

“As long as we’re on the same page -”

“All this is because of Sammy, right?” Thomas says. King’s face closes down dangerously. “Because Sammy died -”

“You don’t have the right to call him that,” King snaps, his faux-affable demeanor dropping in an instant. Thomas barely flinches.

“I can call my brother what I want to call him,” Thomas says. King’s brows furrow even further and this must be the first time Thomas has ever seen King visibly angry.

“He’s -”

“He was my fucking brother King,” Thomas says. “You should see the Jefferson family albums. Little Sammy Jefferson disappeared when he was seven, he’d be nineteen now.”

“Bullshit,” King says. Thomas shrugs.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,” Thomas says. “He’s dead, and I have to live with what I’ve done.”

“You let him die,” King says. Thomas cocks an eyebrow.

“You really haven’t put it together,” he says. “You really think Alexander killed Sammy.”

“Of course he did, he carved out his eye -”

Thomas chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh no. I saw the medical reports. Sammy died of a brain aneurysm.”

“Alexander cut out his eye,” King repeats, voice hard. Thomas nods.

“He did. But the loss of an eye doesn’t cause aneurysms,” Thomas says. “Neither does losing a few fingers. He survived a few days, so those injuries weren’t enough to kill him. He would have been fine if it weren’t for a little blood vessel in his brain that decided to _pop_.”

“Are you seriously trying to say it was an _accident?_ ” King spits the words.

“Of course it wasn’t. He was young, healthy. The only reason he should have had an aneurysm was if he sustained major injury to his head. Which he did, when I slammed his head into the concrete ground.”

If King was angry before, it has nothing compared to the waves of rage and hatred that hit Thomas. King’s hands ball into fists, one hand crushing the still-lit cigarette. But Thomas isn’t done. “But again, he survived several days in care.”

“I’m going to kill you so slowly -”

“All it takes to spot an oncoming aneurysm is a simple CT scan or an MRI.” Thomas interrupts. “Which Sammy should have had done, since he had major damage to his eye and optical nerve. Any competent doctor should have seen a building aneurysm, easy.”

“You’re going to regret -”

“Which then begs the question, why didn’t they?” Thomas asks. “Why didn’t they spot it coming?” He fiddles with the trigger, watching King’s face carefully. “My guess, he didn’t _have_ any scans done, did he? Someone here thought it was best not to trust any doctors. Kept Sam in his sight the whole time.”

“What difference does it make if they had seen it or not?” King asks. His voice is hard, but with an undercurrent of something _else_. Like King is finally starting to connect the dots

“Because here’s the thing about brain aneurysms, they can be _very_ easy prevent,” Thomas says. “All you gotta do is know it’s there and it’s a very simple surgery to stop it from bursting and killing someone. Sammy could have lived, if only _someone_ had let a doctor run even a single image scan.”

Thomas watches as the color drains from King’s face. “What are you saying?” King asks, the rage still palpable, but the undercurrent of fear before is now woven through each word.

Thomas smiles. “I’m saying Alexander didn’t kill Sammy, _you and I did_.”

Thomas lets his words land, watches as King jerks like he’s been shot, almost doubling over, breath picking up. His eyes flick back and forth across the floor, like the cold concrete has answers. He drops to his knees, hands scrabbling at his own shoulders, his neck, his head, searching for something he doesn’t have.

“King,” Thomas says, pulling the man’s attention back up. His expression is wild, terrible understanding having broken in his wide, stark blue eyes. His mouth hangs open almost like he wants to scream or make noise or say _something_ but can’t.

Thomas steadies his aim, and squeezes the trigger once.

King collapses against the ground in a lifeless heap.

“Three headshots,” Alexander says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over.
> 
> ....kinda. We still got epilogue to get through. So, two chapters left. Then it's officially over. Holy fucking shit.
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Aaron Burr died in 1836, a little over twenty years after the Hamilton duel, two years after a massive stroke. He was bedridden for most of those two years. His life after the Hamilton duel was kinda a shit show - possible attempted treason followed up by self-exile in Europe only to return to the states under a false name, got married again only to be divorced (his second wife's attorney being Alexander Hamilton Jr. in the Power Move of the Century) and died almost penniless and forgotten. Accounts on whether or not Burr regretted the duel vary wildly during the immediate aftermath, but by the end of his life most agree Burr did heavily regret his actions.
> 
> King George III would maintain the British throne for about 80 years, the longest ruling monarch at the time. He would be periodically removed from actual authority for a few periods during his later life due to illness, likely porphyria, which caused periods of mental instability, though the actual cause has never been proven. When George finally gave up the throne in 1811, he was declared insane due to his growing dementia, and would die of old age in 1820. His mental deterioration would grow so great that he would not be able to comprehend the death of his wife in 1818, reportedly spoke nonsense for a period of 48 hours on Christmas 1819, then went silent for the last weeks of his life. 
> 
> See you Friday


	70. Epilogue Part 1 - The First 24 Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath

The door to the warehouse opens, and Thomas steps out into the main area. His grip on the back of King’s jacket tightens as he drags the limp form out into the dirt. In the corners of his vision, he sees other people wearing those bright red jackets turn to him, eyes wide as they take in the sight. But Thomas keeps his eyes locked straight ahead.

The compound goes silent, the only sound being the confused shouts of the police just on the other side of Redcoat barricades. King is fairly light, easy enough to pull out into the gravel road. Blood streaks the dirt as Thomas pulls the body along, what remains of King’s head lolling to the side.

There’s a pile of boxes to the side of the road, just on the other side of a building. Wordlessly, Thomas pulls King’s body to them, and hoists the dead weight onto one. He situates King so he’s sat up, looking out over the compound, blood rolling down around him.

When Thomas turns around, there are solemn, scared eyes looking at him from all directions. The sun starts to slowly rise behind him, the sky a blood-red.

\--------------

The forces holding the front gate of the compound had made a few gains, forcing what police came their way back. But the five or so men standing there watched silently as a blood-soaked man leaves King’s body on some garbage, and then makes his slow way towards them.

No one says anything, no one moves as the strange man crosses the threshold of the gate, turns, and walks away down the street, away from the police. There’s a long moment of silence, all five men looking between one another, lost.

Seabury is dead. Reynolds is dead. King is dead.

One man walks out into the middle of the street, throws his weapon to the dirt beside him, raises his hands in the air and drops to his knees.

“Jack, what are you doing?” One of his friends asks, breaking the silence.

“It’s over,” Jack responds.

\--------------

The horrific display of King’s body is on the list of the worst things Steuben has ever seen, but doesn’t top it, unfortunately. He wishes it did. He stares at it though, waiting for the preliminary sweep of the Redcoat compound to be completed. What men remain, those that didn’t turn tail and run at the very last minute, are being loaded into prison vans, to be held and processed and interviewed later.

What has been said chills him - a stranger finished it all. A strange, blood-covered man with curly hair killed King. Steuben prays it’s not Thomas. Prays he left the area after the church. Prays for _something_ to end alright.

“Hey, Steub,” someone from behind him calls. Steuben turns around and sees one of his SWAT boys poking his head out from the building just across the street. “Building’s clear, just a woman and a baby.”

“A baby?” Steuben asks. The SWAT officer nods, opening the door as Steuben crosses the road. He leads Steuben through an elegant front hall and up a set of stairs. It’s a very expensive home to be here, in the middle of such a place.

The upper level is the same, small but packed with riches and opulence. They pass what looks like a master bedroom for the next room. Inside, Steuben finds a well-furnished nursery and a weeping woman sat down on a chair with blanket wrapped around her shoulders. In the middle of the room is a crib.

Inside the white, wooden crib: a sleeping baby girl. Her hand twitches in her sleep, the mobile above her head spinning gently, a music box tune tinkling through the room.

\--------------

Thomas makes the long walk around a good number of city blocks before managing to slip back into the apartment the Schuylers had been using. He has not entertained thoughts of the remaining sisters waiting for them, so the empty room does not surprise him. It seems they left in a rush, loose papers strewn about, computer monitors still in place. The hard drives are gone, as well as three of the eight bags in the corner.

Five get away bags remain, and Thomas wastes no time tearing into the ones meant for Burr and Lafayette. They won’t be needing the piles of cash, emergency rations, burner phones and other supplies anymore. Thomas dumps those items into his own bag, as well as snatching a few more items of Lafayette’s clothes. They fit well enough, and Thomas doesn’t have a lot.

At the bottom of Lafayette’s bag, he finds photographs. Pictures of Lafayette, Alexander, Laurens, Mulligan, Washington, others. Thomas doesn’t waste time sorting, just dumps them in his bag. He’ll go through them later, when he has more time. He ignores the bag meant for Teddy - it’s all baby supplies. Worthless to him at this point.

He hesitates when he reaches for Alexander’s bag. There’s not much room left in his but he needs to travel light but these are _Alexander’s_ things. His fingers rest on the zipper, but he can’t force himself to do it.

He slings his bag over his shoulders and carries Alexander’s by one strap. Like hell he’s leaving it behind.

\--------------

There’s a car speeding out of the greater New York area that just managed to get ahead of the roadblocks. Two women sit inside, bags at their feet. The older sister drives, eyes scanning the road like there might still be police ahead. The younger leans against the car window, watching the scenery fly by.

“Would Philip really be disappointed in us?” Eliza asks. Angelica taps her fingers against the steering wheel.

“He’d understand.”

Silence descends for another ten miles or so, country rolling by.

“We’ll see the others in Colorado, right?” Eliza asks again, though her voice sounds like she already knows the answer.

“Maybe,” is all Angelica says. “Maybe.”

\--------------

Thomas walks the countless blocks it takes him to find a familiar old motel. A familiar woman sits behind the counter, eyes glued to a small tv plugged in on the counter. “Welcome to Motel 6, what can I do for you?” She asks. Thomas clears his throat and she looks up. There’s a flash of recognition in her eyes as Thomas puts his wallet on the counter.

“I need a room,” he says, voice rough and harsh. The woman looks at him, looks down at the tv, and then reaches for a set of keys.

“Room 33,” she says. Thomas starts to pull $80 out of his wallet for her, but she shakes her head. “It’s on the house.” Thomas blinks, and she sighs. “Look, man, if you got out tonight, you deserve a free bed.”

Thomas nods, not questioning it. He slips his wallet back in his pocket, takes the key he’s offered and makes his way down the hall. The room is similar to the one Thomas and Alexander had the last time they were here, and he drops his bags on the single bed. When he looks over, he finds Alexander sitting peacefully on the edge of the bed.

Thomas showers, letting the warm water wash the blood from his skin. He puts his clothes to soak and changes into a set Lafayette gave him. By the time he’s out of the bathroom, exhaustion has finally started to catch up to him, crawling up his back and pulling his body down with every footstep.

So, Thomas lies down on the floor, facing the wall. He lets Alexander have the bed, because of course he does. Alexander can have the bed - Thomas doesn’t deserve one.

Thomas sleeps for hours on the floor. And when he wakes up, it’s staring at the beige wall that it all hits and he finally, _finally_ , breaks down.

\--------------

The door to the transport van opens for the tenth time in an hour and Lafayette jerks forward. For the first time, they just recognize the FBI Agent that Madison had with him earlier. “Wait!” They call as the large man goes to shut the door.

He hesitates, and then opens the door further. “I’m busy,” he says, though there’s no gruffness in his voice when he looks at them. Lafayette struggles against the chains on their wrists, wanting to reach out. The other men in the van look at them with a mixture of curiosity, anger and fear.

“It’s been hours, we had a _deal_ ,” Lafayette insists. The already tired expression on the agent’s face grows somehow more exhausted, almost gaunt. “Let me go.”

“The deal was made on the requirement we got King alive,” the agent says. “I’m sorry, it’s not my call.” He goes to shut the door again, and Lafayette manages to stand.

“Please,” they say, “at least tell me what’s happened.”

The agent looks at them and thinks for a long moment, fingers curled around the edge of the door. Then he lets out a breath. “King’s dead,” he says. They suck in a breath, a part of their mind already calculating how to spin this to get the chains off their wrists -

“So is Hamilton,” the agent says, and suddenly it feels like the ground has been yanked out from under Lafayette’s feet. Any words get caught in their throat, and they sit back down slowly. The agents lets out a sigh, and as the door to the can shuts, Lafayette feels their body go numb.

At some point they feel the van turn over, they don’t move as the van starts to travel. Alexander’s dead. Everything’s gone. They have no idea what Thomas must be like right now. The van pulls into the precinct, but Lafayette is so lost in their own head.

They let some tired, frustrated officer drag them from the van, manhandle them through processing and shove them through the door to a holding tank packed full with men in bright red jackets. There’s a moment of silence, then:

“Hey Frenchie,” one of the men says. Lafayette recognizes him so vaguely. They look around the room and they realize that most of these men used to be their friends. Once upon a time, Lafayette had worn their own jacket, once stood beside these people.

Now when they take a step forward, they men around them step away, parting like the red sea. None of them stand within arms reach of Lafayette, so when they reach the bench carved into the wall, no one questions them as they take a seat.

Even as other men are pushed into the small room, there still remains a semi-circle of empty space around them.

\--------------

Thomas’ voice has almost gone out from screaming, his body aches from crying. His head pounds with everything swirling around inside it. He can’t contain it but his body can’t let it out anymore.

Alexander lays on his stomach on the bed, peering down at Thomas where he’s splayed out on his back on the floor.

“I could make it four headshots,” Thomas says, feeling like his throat is made of gravel. “End it all.”

“You could,” Alexander responds.

“Do you want me too?” Thomas asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you _not_ want me too?”

“I don’t know,” Alexander says again

“Should I?”

“Up to you.” Alexander shrugs. He rolls over onto his back and scoots down so he’s looking at Thomas upside down, his hair hanging down towards the floor. “Not my choice.”

Thomas turns his head to look at him. “Are you real?”

Alexander cocks an eyebrow. “I am to you, evidently.”

“Are you in my head or are you a ghost?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

“Must be in your head then.” Alexander is suddenly on the floor next to him, lying on his side.

“I don’t want to live anymore,” Thomas says.

“I know,” Alexander says.

“It’s all my fault.”

“I know.”

“I deserve to be punished,” Thomas says. He wants to reach out and touch Alexander, he looks so solid. He doesn’t risk it.

Alexander shrugs again. “So what’s your punishment?” He asks. “You could turn yourself in.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

“Death penalty,” Alexander reminds him. Thomas takes a breath.

“But that’s what I want. So, not a punishment.”

“So you’re gonna live.”

Thomas stares up at the stucco ceiling of the motel, feeling his tear tracks turn dry and tacky. “I guess.”

Alexander rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling too. “What are you gonna do with your life then?”

“I don’t know.”

\--------------

James wasn’t sure miracles were real until he wakes up in the hospital with memories of looking at Thomas from the other side of a gun. His body feels so heavy, his mind struggling to come out of the familiar grog of anesthesia. If he’d been shot, then of course he’d been in surgery. He’s been through his before, but not quite like this.

He fumbles for the call remote, manages to push a button, and soon there’s a doctor and a handful of nurses in his small room. They tell him what happened, no mention of Thomas, but then the doctor looks at him solemnly and tells him the bullet got lodged in his spine, that it was more dangerous to try and remove it than pull it out.

The doctor holds his hand out in front of James and tells him to grab and squeeze his finger, one hand at a time. James does, wincing from a soreness in his chest. He can’t feel anything else much lower than that, even where he knows the entrance wound should be. James doesn’t question it for the moment, he knows the pain will come later and it will be _excruciating_ , so he’ll take this for as long as it lasts.

The doctor asks him to move his toes, one foot at a time. James complies, staring up at the ceiling, trying to process. One of the nurses says Dolley should be here soon, her flight left Virginia about forty minutes ago. Thomas is alive, _again_. The doctor asks him to move his toes again. He needs to call Steuben or Sally, find out what’s happened.

“Agent Madison,” the doctor says, leaning over his head. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” James responds, mind almost a thousand miles away. Thomas shot at him. Is he in custody again? If not, where is he -

“Can you move either of your feet for me then?” The doctor asks, an odd quality to his voice. Once again, James does as he’s asked, but frowns at the tone of the other man’s voice. Now that his attention is drawn to them, James realizes he can’t feel his feet. He looks down, knowing they _should_ be moving, he’s telling them to move.

They’re not.

A cold hand clamps around his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter as the doctor asks him to move his legs, and he _can’t_. He can’t feel it when a nurse moves his legs around so they can look at the color of his skin, just to make sure there’s blood flowing. They sit him up and he can’t stay upright on his own. It’s not even that he’s struggling, it’s just he can’t do it. There’s nothing responding in his legs or in his lower stomach.

By the time Dolley comes bursting into the room, James is sat up against his raised bed and he’s being told about his new life as a paraplegic man. He feels so numb, even as Dolley takes his hand and tells him it’s going to be alright.

He’s decided miracles don’t happen after all.

\--------------

Thomas doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, but he’s got more NYC bus and subway credits than he’ll ever use, and he knows that he has to get out of town. So he waits until nightfall to catch a bus heading west, walks to the very back, and settles in to ride until the end of the line.

The cold plastic seat is uncomfortable, the streetlights pass by the windows and cast harsh shadows in the interior of the bus. Alexander sits in the seat next to him, head tilted back so he can look out the window as they go.

“Across the aisle, three seats back,” Alexander says suddenly. Thomas nods, almost imperceptibly. The motel woman had given him an odd look when she heard him talking to Alexander. Thomas might be crazy, but he’s not stupid. “‘Kay, just making sure you knew.”

The person Alexander was talking about sits alone on the other side of the aisle, wrapped up in what looks like a fairly cheap coat. The woman is staring at Thomas, wide eyed. For a moment, Thomas wonders if maybe she can see the blood on him too, but when he looks up at her, there’s no fear in her eyes, only admiration.

“You’re the man who killed George King,” she says quietly, awe in her voice. Thomas nods stiffly, eyes narrowing. The woman gasps, and then reaches up to the collar of her coat. Thomas waits on pins and needles as she reveals her collarbone. The crown-shaped brand there makes the matching one on Thomas’ chest tingle, but at least now he understands who this woman is. “Thank you.”

“News spreading that fast?” He asks. “I haven’t looked at the news.”

She shakes her head. “If the police know, they haven’t said anything officially.” Thomas lets out a pent up breath as she continues: “No, I was there.”

Thomas looks at her, scanning her up and down. She looks very small, not frail but still small. “You were in the compound?” He asks. She nods.

“I was in King’s home,” she says. “Watching some baby, I saw you drag him out through the window.”

Thomas and Alexander both perk up at that. “A baby? A little girl?” The woman nods, and Thomas leans forward. “What happened to her?”

“I gave her to the FBI,” she says.”Slipped out before anyone could try and arrest me.”

Thomas narrows his eyes. “You slipped away from police?”

“No one paid any attention to the crying working girl in the corner,” she says. “Walked right on out while their back was turned.”

Thomas leans back in his seat, looking at her. Alexander stands, walking over to peer at her from a different angle. She doesn’t react to him, because of course she doesn’t. “Where are you going?” Thomas asks her. The woman frowns, then shrugs.

“Somewhere not here,” she says. “Anywhere.”

The corner of Thomas’ mouth quirks upwards. “You don’t mind if I go ‘somewhere’ with you, do you?” he asks. The woman’s eyes flash with alarm, and Thomas holds up one hand. “Not like that, I just don’t have a destination either.”

The woman looks at him, eyes searching him in that pointed way women like her look at men. The bus slows to a stop, and while a single passenger walks onto the bus, the woman switches sides to sit next to Thomas. Alexander watches her move, climbing into the seat on her other side.

“What’s your name?” She asks. Thomas pauses for just a moment, looking over at her, Alexander just on the other side.

“Johan,” he says eventually. The woman quirks an eyebrow.

“‘Johan’ okay,” she says, like she knows but like she understands. “Then my name’s Katie.” Thomas nods. Katie settles into the plastic seat. “People are gonna be looking for you, you know. Lots of ‘em,” she muses. “Maybe a few of them will be looking for me too.” Thomas watches her silently as she pushes brown hair away from her face. “No one’s going to be looking for Johan and Katie though. Not a young couple.”

Alexander breaks out into a grin. “Oh, I like her,” he says. “Clever.” Thomas echos Alexander’s compliment, and Katie smirks.

“Have to be to survive James Reynolds,” she says. “So, where are Johan and Katie going?”

“Where are you from?” Thomas asks. Katie’s smile slips.

“California,” she says. “But there’s nothing there for me.” Her smile returns, this time bitter. “Ironic, all I wanted was to get out of where I grew up, but not like…” she motions at her collar. She lets out a little laugh and says: “Johan, you did what I wish I could have done.”

Something about that sentence raises a little flag in Thomas’ head. “How’d you get to New York?” Katie looks at him through the corner of her eye.

“Traded and sold until I ended up here,” she says.

“Who sold you to King?” Thomas asks.

“Some asshole in Indiana, I think his name was Josh.”

“Do you want to go kill him?” Thomas says. Katie starts, head snapping to look at him dead on. She’s silent for a moment, and Thomas looks back at her as earnestly as possible.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

Thomas nods and leans his head back against the window. “King had to have had a network around the country,” he says, thinking out loud. Katie smiles wide.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” She asks. “Asshole Josh first, and then…” she trails. Thomas nods, and she leans back into the window.

“Looks like you found something to do,” Alexander says, settling back in his seat. All three of them are leaning back, heads on the window, legs stretched out. They ride in silence into the night, Thomas counting the stops until it's time to switch buses. He and Katie figure out a bus route to Indiana, and when Katie goes to pay, Thomas is left with Alexander by the schedule board.

When Thomas absentmindedly reaches out to brush Alexander's hair away from his face, Alexander vanishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All you people so happy you picked up on James surviving but never once considered what the consequences for that might be. Well, he's alive, but did you really think I'd let him live unscathed?
> 
> In other news, we have one chapter to go. Epilogue Part 2 will be out same time next week, then that's it. I'll handle ending historical notes then.
> 
> Story notes
> 
> Johan? Because Black- _ish_? I'll leave now.
> 
> See you Friday


	71. Epilogue Part 2 - The Middle 3 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transitions

Steuben and Sally went back to Virginia first. Another team of agents took over clean-up, Farnese wanted them home as soon as possible. James ended up stuck in New York for a little longer, just until the hospital cleared him for transfer to a location closer to home.

Being put on forced leave didn’t surprise Steuben. All three of them were taken off duty during the internal investigation. He did his best to be cooperative, answering every question as honestly as possible.

_‘As possible’_ being the key phrase.

“You discovered Hamilton’s body alone in the church?” asked yet another agent Steuben didn’t know. He heard they were from California, supposedly ‘independent investigators.’

“Yes, I was alone.”

“There was no one else?”

“No. I was _alone_.”

He spent his whole leave in his apartment, alone. He forbade Pierre and Ben from coming to see him while the investigation was ongoing. Besides, he felt responsible for Ben and Pierre’s injuries at Thomas’ hands.

He made a few phone calls, transferred the required money, and in return received photographs from a small church in New York of Hamilton’s funeral. If he could have travelled back up for it, he would have. He’d also go see James if he could, but he doesn’t know how either of those things would go over with _anyone_. As it was, Steuben was certain the apartment next to his housed a few undercover agents. So he stayed home and watched the news, praying each time Thomas’ name was brought up it was just another reminder of the nationwide manhunt going on.

_Dear god, don’t let him be caught_.

\--------------

James spends his time in the hospital in a haze. It isn’t long before he was off painkillers but he still felt numb. Like none of it was real. He took the medication he was given and went to physical therapy when told. He didn’t protest when orderlies lifted him from bed, put him in a wheelchair, and strapped him in like he was a doll. He did the motion tests the doctors administered, with no difference in results. He did everything he was supposed to, no complaint.

_A model patient_ , he was called. _A shame something like that happened to Mr. Madison,_ they said. _Such a trooper_.

Dolley is with him more often than not. They didn’t talk much, James didn’t have anything to say. She’s better at translating the medical speak around him to something easier to understand. The benefits of having a doctor for a wife, he supposed.

Mostly, though, James stays in his own head. He keeps replaying the last month over and over in his head, trying to pinpoint when it all went wrong. Where was the moment that, if someone had acted just a bit differently, it could have turned out alright?

“Maybe therapy is a good idea,” Dolley says, filling out her paperwork in her seat by his bedside.

“I go to physical therapy,” James says.

“Not physical therapy James,” she says. James turns the tv volume higher. A woman screams at Dr. Phil about her daughter’s disrespect.

\-------------

Steuben walks out of Farnese’s office and down into the main office area. He passes the other agents, his old friends and acquaintances, doesn’t give any of them a second thought. They all watch him pass with looks of pity, or disdain, or simply with wide eyes.

He makes it to his desk. It’s been rifled through, likely by the investigators. The investigation’s not _done_ , but apparently they’re done with Steuben. There’s already a box beside his desk. Also already there is Sally. She sits on the edge of his desk, looking perfectly put together.

“I’m transferring,” she says, before Steuben can even open his mouth. “I won’t tell you where too, but I’ve been cleared of wrongdoing and I’m transferring to another branch.”

“That’s fair,” he says. “Everyone else is running from this.”

Her eyes flash. “I can’t be here, Steub,” she says. “Everyone keeps looking at me like…” she trails. Steuben sighs.

“I know.” He picks up the box and puts it on his seat, then starts to pack his things. Sally watches him.

“Are you transferring too?” She asks. Steuben puts his copy of the team photo in the box, unable to look at it for too long.

“They gave me an option,” he says by way of explanation. “I retire, or they fire me.”

“What’d you choose?”

“I need my pension,” Steuben says.

“I’ve heard they can’t prove you let Jefferson escape,” Sally says. “That must be it.” Steuben stops, looking down at the half-filled box.

“Say his name,” Steuben says.

“What, Jefferson?”

“Say his name Sally.” Steuben looks up at her. “He was our friend.”

“Don’t fucking remind me,” she spits, stands up from the desk, and leaves.

\--------------

Farnese himself comes to see James in the rehab facility, just a few days before he’s marked to be sent home. James has been through the questioning, through what parts of the investigation make their way out to reach him, but Farnese walking through the door signals that James’ part in it is just about over.

“How are you feeling James?” Farnese asks, but James can tell he’s not very sincere, even in faux concern for him.

“Fine,” James says back. Farnese smiles, looking something like a snake. This man made him arrest Thomas.

“Good, I’m glad,” he sits down on the edge of James’ bed, and idly pats his leg. James only knows this because he’s watching Farnese like a hawk. The director doesn’t seem to notice what he’s doing. He looks over at Dolley. “Mrs. Madison, would you please excuse us?”

“Dr. Madison,” Dolley corrects. She never liked Farnese. But she still stands and takes her crossword out into the hall. Once they’re alone, Farnese turns back to James.

“So, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but -” makes that face you make when you’ve got bad news for somebody but you don’t like that somebody so it almost makes you feel good to tell them the bad news, but also you’re an asshole so it _does_ make you feel good - “I got the full investigation report and, well, it doesn’t look good for you James.”

James looks at him through three layers of haze. “Okay,” he says. Farnese rubs James’ shin. He’s getting used to seeing thing make contact with him but not feeling it, but it still fucks with James’ head a little.

“I think you’ve got a little convenient ‘out’ though,” Farnese says. “If say, you decided to extend your medical leave permanently, you could avoid all the punishment and retire with all your benefits and honors intact.”

“What am I facing if I go back?” James asks. Farnese shrugs.

“I haven’t gotten the investigation’s recommendation back, but I’m sure it’ll be quite harsh. Harsher once I decide what aspect of it to amplify.”

James looks down at the blanket covering his body. He can only feel it where his hands grip the edges. If his legs don’t work, they’d never let him out on the field again. Beyond all the pay docking and demotion and shaming Farnese could level on him, nothing would be worse than having to be a fucking _desk jockey_ for the rest of his career. Having to go into the office every day in a wheelchair and do paperwork while everyone stares and talks behind his back. And it’s not like he could transfer like Sally.

“Do you need my resignation?” James asks. Farnese smiles, but shakes his head.

“There’s extra forms for you because this is related to an injury sustained on the job, I’ll get those sent over as soon as possible.” He hops off the bed with one last gentle pat of James’ leg. “It was great working with you Mr. Madison.” James just grunts back as Farnese sweeps out of the room.

\--------------

American prison is not much different than French prison, at least according to what Lafayette had always been told about French prison. Overcrowded, full of radical white men, dirty, and most importantly - very very _loud_. Lafayette can’t find a moment of silence in their block, even in the dead of night someone is up and shuffling about.

It would be enough to drive them insane if they hadn’t spent a childhood preparing for the possibility of a prison stay.

The only good thing is that they find that their reputation precedes them. From the moment Lafayette stepped into their block most of these boys stayed out of their way. The only issue they had was the block ‘boss’ trying to prove he was better the first day in. That idiot hasn’t been let out of the infirmary yet.

The bad thing is that they are so very lonely. No one talks to them, no one tries to engage. They all watch them with careful eyes. When Lafayette takes a seat for meals, people already sitting down tend to flee the table. Their cellmate is like a ghost for as much as he dares interfere with Lafayette’s life.

They miss John so much.

\--------------

James is released from rehab and into Dolley’s care. She easily maneuvers him from the wheelchair to the car and back in again. She’s had a ramp installed to the front door of their home, and it’s not long before James is back inside.

It’s odd to see everything from sitting position, everything looks taller now that he’s in his wheelchair. It’s just a slight difference, but it’s enough to make his home feel strange. Dolley’s gone ahead and switched them from using the master bedroom upstairs to a guest bedroom on the first floor, and when she shows him the connected bathroom, it’s already been renovated for easy use.

They eat dinner, some sort of casserole sent over by Jane Jefferson. If he knows Jane, this will be all the contact they have ever again, which, what would Jane even say to him? Dolley turns on a movie but James is falling asleep halfway through. Even such a simple day tires him out anymore. So Dolley helps him change into pajamas and tucks him into bed. She stays on her side of the bed, wary she might turn and hurt him in his sleep. James falls asleep cold and numb.

When he wakes up, the sun is streaming in through the window, splashed across his eyes. He’s confused for a moment as to why he’s sleeping on his back - he never does that. His brain is still in startup mode as he pulls the covers off his body and goes to sit up. He must be more tired than he thought because he has to prop himself up on his hands to sit up steady. He gives himself a minute before he goes to swing his legs over the side of the bed and get ready for work.

Nothing happens, and James spends a split second looking down at his unresponsive legs in confusion before reality comes crashing down.

He’d _forgotten_. He’s back home and waking up in a bed (not his, he realizes now, but the comforter is the same) next to his wife and in the normalcy, he forgot.

And now that the haze around his life is broken, now that he’s home and _still paralyzed_ , James is angry. His hands clench the sheets below him as his blood starts to burn in his veins. He’s lost everything - his legs, his job, his fucking _bedroom_. Dolley isn’t cuddled up to his side. Thomas is gone, Steuben is gone, Louis, Martha, Sally, Ben; _gone_. His normal life is _gone_.

“James, darling?” Dolley asks, voice sleepy as she turns around to look at him. James glares at his own useless legs, sheer rage shooting through him.

“Thomas took everything from me,” he says finally. His voice is hard, even he’s surprised at how angry he sounds. Dolley lets out a breath.

“It wasn’t Thomas -”

“It was!” James snaps. “He did this!”

It’s Thomas’ fault until the next morning when it’s King’s fault. The day after that it’s Thomas’ again. It stays Thomas’ fault for a week until James starts blaming himself. That lasts two weeks before the blame shifts back to King. It’s Hamilton’s fault for a month before James realizes it’s Hamilton _and_ Thomas’ fault. And then it’s James’ again.

And so on and so on.

\--------------

Thomas stands over yet another body, hunting knife in his hand. He can’t remember this one’s name. The blood is running across his shoes as Katie makes short work of the remaining men in the apartment.

“Johan!” she shouts. “Start looking through sale records.”

Thomas lets out a breath as he starts searching the bedside drawers in the bedroom until he finds a little black journal. Everyone uses a small black journal. He starts to flip through, looking for the guy who supplied these guys drugs or girls or weapons or whatever it was they were selling.

“Weapons,” Alexander reminds him.

“You’ve been gone a while,” Thomas mutters. “Been a month.” Alexander shrugs from where he sits on the bed.

“You’re getting better with a knife,” he says. “Very efficient.”

“Katie’s a good instructor.”

\--------------

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Dolley says one day. James makes a noncommittal grunt from where he’s sat in front of the tv. It’s all he can do anymore, sit around and do _nothing_. He’s got a blanket on his lap, as well as a book he’s been meaning to read but he just can’t focus. He hates feeling like a lump.

“Whatever happened to the girl?” Dolley asks. “The baby?”

“Foster care, I assume,” James says, voice flat. He hears Dolley sigh, and she comes out from the kitchen with James’ dinner. Soup, that James knows he’ll only pick at. He has no appetite.

Dolley places it on the tray that clips onto the armrests of James’ wheelchair and clicks it into place. “I wonder if she’s found a permanent home yet.” James shrugs as Dolley sits down onto the couch with a sandwich for herself. James can feel her expectant gaze boring into him, and he sighs.

“Why do you ask?” He asks, knowing he’s taking the bait for whatever Dolley’s thinking.

“Well, you know,” she starts. “We’ve always talked about adopting kids.”

“Dolley -”

“Since I can’t get pregnant and that little girl needs a home -”

“You can’t possibly be thinking -”

“And wouldn’t it be best for her to have someone around that knows what happened to her as a baby? Not some strangers?” Dolley asks. James lets out a deep breath.

“We can’t care for a child.”

“We absolutely can!” She says. “You’ve got your visiting nurse for when I’m at work, and finding a babysitter or daycare wouldn’t be hard.” Dolley scoots forward on the couch. “James, I think it would be good for both you _and_ her.”

“You want to bring Teddy Burr into this house?” James asks. “You want to bring the _one thing_ that could possibly remind me of why I can’t walk to live with us for almost eighteen years?”

“It would be good for the both of you!” She says. “She gets a home and you get to make sure _something_ good came out of that damn assignment.”

“I can’t take care of a child.”

“Daycare,” Dolley says. James looks at her and there’s the cold steel in her eyes that he knows too well. The ‘ _I’ll fucking finish medical school without my parent’s money_ ’ look. The ‘ _I’ll save this patient’s life_ ’ look. The _‘I can take care of my disabled husband without quitting my job_ ’ look.

“If you can get it done, go for it,” he says. “Good luck getting the state to agree to let _us_ adopt her.”

Theodosia Burr-Madison joins the household a couple of months later.

\--------------

When Lafayette gets called into the visitor’s center, they’re expecting that the US, France and Interpol have finally managed to figure out what exactly to do with them. To see the FBI badges flashed in their face only confirms it.

“So, I’m stuck in this country then,” they say. The agents look at one another.

“Well, maybe,” one says. “The French are winning the custody debate, but… America wants to keep you.”

Lafayette looks at her blankly. “It does not matter much to me which country I am jailed in,” they say. She lets out a breath.

“Let me finish. The U.S. really wants to keep its hands on you, so we’ve been sent with an offer.” She pulls out papers from a briefcase. “We’ll clear you of all charges, grant you citizenship, and block extradition.”

Lafayette cocks an eyebrow. “For what in return?”

\--------------

Teddy grows fast, like all babies. She’s starting to crawl now, and James watches her scoot around the hardwood floor on all fours. As much as he hates himself for it, he can’t fight down the bitterness and the resentment he sometimes feels towards the helpless child.

It’s never _her_ fault, she doesn’t join the rotation, but every time she so much as coos at him, James flinches.

Dolley is a wonderful mother, caring for the child as if she was her own flesh and blood. More often than not, Teddy’s in a baby carrier on Dolley’s chest, trying to pull a loose bit of Dolley’s hijab into her mouth. When Dolley’s around, Teddy refuses to be without her - wailing whenever Dollet so much as puts her down to go to the bathroom. The next best thing is a little stuffed elephant that the girl sleeps with.

The worst part is that she _loves_ James. If she has the option, she’ll pick James over Dolley but James can’t stand to have the girl on his lap. He feels sick when she babbles nonsense at him, or pats his face with her tiny hands. She’s just a little baby but he looks at her and sees so much more.

And he can tell Dolley’s getting frustrated with him. Teddy crawls her way over to James and tugs on the blanket, asking to be picked up. Even if James wanted to, he couldn’t reach over and grab her, so he’s forced to call for his wife and the look of disappointment she gives him when James asks her to take her away makes his insides rot.

James doesn’t have much of a sense of time anymore, so when the doorbell rings it could be ten minutes or two hours later. He doesn’t move, knowing Dolley will get it, and sure enough he can hear lowered voices drifting in from the hallway. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but it barely matters to him anyway. Nothing really matters to him anymore.

“James,” Dolley says, poking her head into the living room. “There’s someone here to see you.’

James stifles a sigh. If it’s another one of his old coworkers he’ll scream. But when he turns his head he sees a figure he never expected to see.

“James Madison Jr,” Mrs. Jefferson says, hands placed on her hips. Dolley, holding Teddy to her side, slips away as Mr. Jefferson comes into the room. James swallows, his stomach dropping.

“Mrs. Jefferson,” he greets, voice cold. Mrs. Jefferson’s lips pinch.

“That’s enough of _that_ attitude,” she says. “No wonder Dolley’s all worked up about you.”

James turns his head to look at the muted television. “It’s good to see you,” he says. He doesn’t dare risk a dismissal. Mrs. Jefferson walks over to the tv, heels clicking on the floor, and switches it off with one manicured finger.

“It seems you need a talking to young man,” Mrs. Jefferson says. James bites down on _you’re not my mom_ , and dutifully waits for her to keep speaking. “Now, I understand things must be difficult with…” she motions to the chair, and James’ jaw clenches, “but that doesn’t give you an excuse to be a bad husband and an even worse father.”

“With all due -”

“I’m not done talking,” she says. “When was the last time you went to physical therapy? Dolley has told me you sit around and do _nothing_ and stew in your own head. That’s not the Jemmy I know but looking at you it seems to be true.”

“You don’t have the right to judge me,” James says. Mrs. Jefferson’s nostrils flare.

“Excuse you, young man,” she snaps, “You are my family. You grew up partially under my roof! I consider you my son, Thomas considered you a brother -”

“Don’t -”

“ _My son_ loved you -”

“ _Your son took my legs!_ ” James finally snaps back. “This all happened because of _your son_ , people are dead, I’m stuck in a chair, because Thomas lost his mind and decided to give everything up to _fuck_ Hamilton!”

Mrs. Jefferson goes deadly still. Where James is breathing hard from his outburst she almost doesn’t seem to be breathing. They glare at one another for a long moment before Mrs. Jefferson finally opens her mouth.

“I am aware Thomas made mistakes.” James opens his mouth but she hold up one hand and continues. “So did everyone else. You cannot blame him for this without blaming yourself, the dead, everyone.”

“Who says I don’t?” James asks, but Mrs. Jefferson ignores him.

“But it’s all over now. There’s nothing anyone can do to change anything. So everything went wrong and you’re left in a wheelchair and you’re angry and hurting. My Thomas, my eldest son, is gone. I’ve lost three children now. Dolley had to rearrange her life to help take care of you. Louis’ children are without a father. So there is so much pain and loss because of what happened.

“And there is eight-month-old child whose birth parents are dead. And you and your wife have chosen to take her in and give her a chance to live a better life than she born into. And I swear to god James Madison, you better try your damned hardest with you. You owe it to me, to Thomas, to the dead, to _yourself_ , to everyone involved with this mess to raise that girl happy, healthy and right. She is the only good thing that can come out of this, and you better not mess that up.”

Mrs. Jefferson stalks over to the door and yanks it open, the shout of “Dolley, dear” halfway out of her mouth before Dolley appears, holding Theo in her arms. Without much preamble, Mrs. Jefferson scoops Teddy up, walks over to James and holds her out to him.

“This is your daughter now,” Mrs. Jefferson says, easily holding Teddy even as the infant wiggles and reaches for James. “Give her a better life than her parents thought possible.” She deposits Teddy into James’ lap and he quickly grabs the child, holding her up so that they’re facing each other. Teddy coos gently, giggling as she just manages to brush the tips of her tiny little fingers in his hair.

And for the first time, when James looks at her, he doesn’t see blood and death and Thomas from the other side of a gun or the blood-soaked body of her mother. He doesn’t see any of that. He just sees a child. A baby girl with so much opportunity spread out before her. So much life and laugher and possible _good_.

Teddy’s happy giggles turn into concerned noises as James starts to cry. She pats his face where tears are flowing down his cheeks, and her brow furrows as if she’s trying to understand _why_. Then she makes that two-syllable noise that means she wants her little stuffed elephant, and instantly Dolley is presenting it to her.

When Teddy takes it, Dolley quickly scoots away, leaving them alone. With as much force and certainty as an eight-month-old can possess, she pushes it into James’ face as if to say _no, don’t cry, have my elephant._ James starts to laugh from behind the face-full of gray fabric.

“You’ll be fine,” Mrs. Jefferson says.

\--------------

It’s taken over a year to work up the guts to come here, to try and do this, but Thomas and Katie finally stand in a cafe in Telluride, Colorado, waiting. Eliza - or, more rather, Natasha - has a part time job in the bookstore across the way. Her shift should be just about over, Angelica - or Henrietta - should be by in a moment to pick her up and take her home.

“That her?’ Katie asks, pointing to a tall, dark skinned woman climbing out of a car across the street. Thomas nods as Angelica walks down the sidewalk and into the store. Through the window of the shop, Thomas watches as Eliza and Angelica share a quick hug. Eliza looks much thinner now, older. Like the last three years haven’t been kind to her. Angelica looks the same though.

They watch as the women chat, Eliza grabs her coat and she actually smiles and blushes at something Angelica says. The way Angelica’s face lights up at the sights tells Thomas that this is a rare thing anymore. And they look so peaceful, even as they walk out into the cold.

“Now?” Katie asks, fingering the blade hidden in her jacket sleeve. Thomas hesitates, watching the sisters. He remembers the way Alexander’s face lit up whenever he saw them, remembers the gentility between him and Eliza, remembers the way he Angelica joked back and forth. But he also remembers _Philip would be disappointed and -_

“My guess?” Alexander says. “I wouldn’t want you to do it.” He’s sat in the windowsill, eyes flicking back and forth between Thomas and the sisters. Thomas shakes his head, and Katie looks up at him.

“I change my mind,” he says, watching Angelica and Eliza climb into their car. Katie frowns.

“But they’re ex-Sons,”

“Exactly,” Thomas says. He watches them drive away before dropping his face into his hands. “Exactly,” he repeats.

\--------------

Texas is boiling hot, almost too hot for Lafayette’s tastes. But it’s the branch within the FBI they’ve been assigned, and if dealing with the Texas heat is the price they pay for freedom, so be it. No one here knows them, knows who they are or what they’ve done. It’s nice to have people accept them with open arms, and they quickly fall back into a sort of jovial persona.

But at night, when they go home to their apartment (paid for an definitely surveilled by the US government) it’s much too quiet, much too still for their tastes. They keep waiting for Alexander to come bursting in, for Thomas to pass by while cleaning. Most of all, they keep waiting to wake up next to John.

\--------------

They’re down to small targets now, people with the most tangential relationship to King. In three years, they’ve been extremely efficient and lucky. Well, until now.

The last guy actually managed to get a shot off into Thomas’ leg, and now they’re stuck in Oregon as he heals enough to travel. They spend a bit of time holed up in their motel room, Katie making supply runs. She goes out often, while Thomas watches TV with his leg wrapped up.

When he can finally walk, he takes to taking small trips around the city. Katie walks with him more often than not. They don’t talk, they never have. The only things they know about each other are their names (which aren’t their real ones), and they both occasionally get awful, screaming nightmares. Thomas doesn’t ask what Katie’s are about, and Katie gives him the save privacy.

The third day on his feet Katie walks with him to a small diner a block away from the motel, and they sit down for lunch. When they walk in, Katie’s eyes scan the place until they light upon one of the waitresses, a shorter woman with long hair tucked up into a bun. The way Katie’s face lights up makes Thomas’ heartache.

He knows that look. He used to wear it himself.

The way the two women talk and flirt as Thomas watches in silence just makes him more tired. He’s been feeling tired of this whole thing, what he and Katie have been doing, for a while, but seeing _this_ is like someone hammering another nail into his coffin. He knows Katie’s been running out of steam too, their little spree just doesn’t hold the same luster it used to.

When Katie tells Thomas she wouldn’t mind staying here for a little longer, Thomas isn’t surprised. He gives her half of his remaining funds, the small fortune he’d started moving around back in that hotel with Alexander had carried them for years, and she needs it more than he does. They share one last meal, and Thomas leaves in the morning without a goodbye.

“Now what?” Alexander asks as they ride another bus south. Thomas is alone, in the back corner, so he doesn’t feel self-conscious as he responds:

“I’m finished. I’m so tired.”

“So what’s the plan?” Alexander presses. Thomas looks out the window.

“It’s been three years,” he mutters. “I’m done. I don’t want to run anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY SO TECHNICALLY I'M NOT LATE FUCK YOU. IT'S BEFORE MIDNIGHT WHERE I AM.
> 
> I went back to school this week and my new schedule hit me like a truck. I'm surprised I have this done.
> 
> Also there's actually gonna be a third part of the epilogue because it's getting super long and I just can't let this story go for some reason, but it's gonna be up tomorrow.
> 
> See you tomorrow!


	72. Epilogue Part 3 - The 15 Years After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Endings, as much as endings are possible.

Physical therapy sucks. James hates it, even though he can’t feel most of it. The stuff that works his chest burns, and the stuff that works his legs is worse because it’s mostly the therapist manipulating his body for him.

But he promised Dolley he’d go back, so here he is. Three-year-old Teddy sits in the corner playing with blocks as Dolley helps the therapist run James through the usual exercises.

“You’re making really good progress, James,” the therapist says when they’re finished. James cocks an eyebrow.

“Forgive me if I can’t tell,” he says. The therapist smiles awkwardly.

“I mean, even if you can’t feel it, your muscles are getting stronger. It’s taken a few years, but I’m finally seeing some results.”

“Great,” James says. As long as his body’s healthy, then okay. Even if therapy won’t fix him, it will keep him his lower body from withering or getting infections and all sorts of nasty stuff cased from immobility.

“ - maybe get you on your feet,” is all James catches the therapist say, and his head jerks forward.

“What?”

The therapist shrugs. “Well, I don’t think you’ll even have full control back, but if we can possibly improve your upper body strength and find the right set of braces, you might be able to walk one day.”

James feels his jaw drop. Dolley looks at him excitedly “But -”

The therapist holds up one hand. “It won’t be walking like you used to do, it won’t fix your legs, but technology advances rapidly. There’s a chance we might find a system that allows you to get out of that chair.”

\--------------

Jane Jefferson has been living alone for a few years now, her youngest children having moved out to go to school. The house is so big now that it’s just her and the hired help. Jane jr. doesn’t visit, not often, not since Thomas vanished. No one really visits, actually. She’s lonely, her phone calls to her children aren’t enough.

Maybe that’s why she goes to visit the Madisons often. Partially to keep an eye on James and make sure he’s actually _trying_ , but mostly to see the little bundle of joy that is Teddy. She’s getting so big so fast, a little under four years now. Dolley and James are talking about kindergarten, and the idea that Theo is big enough to go to school tugs at Jane’s heart strings.

It’s after one of these visits, followed by a short grocery trip, that Jane comes home after dark. She unlocks the front door, carries in her bags of food in one trip, and puts them on the kitchen counter. It doesn’t take her long to put them away, and she debates on pouring herself a glass of wine before deciding not to. It’s starting to disagree with her stomach, and she wants to sleep well tonight. She shuts off the kitchen light and starts to make her way to the bedroom, passing through the living room -

She catches a hint of movement from the corner of his vision, and she instinctively turns. The hulking shadow of a man catches her off guard, makes her freeze in place. She tries not to breathe too loud as the dark figure shifts in place. She should be scared, should be trying to figure her best way out, but there’s _something_ in her gut saying it’s okay…

She reaches over and flicks on the light, hoping she’s not about to regret this. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of Thomas, her son, standing there in the center of the room like he’s scared to touch anything. He looks so skinny, he sways on his feet, and she can’t help but think he almost looks spectral, ghostlike.

He blinks, eyes adjusting, and Jane sees how gaunt and tired he looks. And then his eyes settle on her and it doesn’t feel like it’s her Thomas looking at her. He looks so broken, none of that spark that used to be in him is there.

“I messed up Momma,” is all he says, voice cracked and harsh, before he breaks down into tears.

\--------------

Teddy is so excited for first grade. Leg-wiggly, can’t stop talking, bouncy type of excited. She can’t possibly contain it in her tiny body, especially not when she’s strapped into the backseat of her mommy’s car getting driven to her first day. Even her daddy’s coming to see her off, which is _so cool,_ because daddy doesn’t go for car rides for no reason. Teddy knows how hard it is to get daddy anywhere, having to struggle with that wheelchair, so to have him coming for her first day is so exciting.

She’s patient as mommy helps daddy into his chair because she has to be, that’s the rules, but it doesn’t stop her from babbling on and on about something. Daddy smiles at her as mommy tucks the blanket around his legs.

“Come on sweetheart,” he says, holding out his hand. “Hold my hand while we cross the parking lot.” Teddy obliges, watching the other kids and their parents walk into the building ahead of them. They have to walk slow because mommy has to push daddy along, and Teddy knows how heavy daddy is. She’s tried to push him along herself, and didn’t get _anywhere_.

A nice lady holds open the door for them, even though that’s Teddy’s job, but she says thank you like her parents do. Since it’s the first day, parents are allowed to come in and drop their kids off in classrooms. Despite the crowding, people let them through easily, but they keep getting looks. When Teddy looks up, daddy’s making that face he makes when someone says something rude about the chair but he smiles down at her reassuringly.

It’s not long before they reach Teddy’s classroom, and Mrs. Manning stands there in the doorway, smiling and waving. They met before, on ‘meet-and-greet’ day, and Teddy waves back as quickly as she can make her hand move. Mrs. Manning and mommy and daddy talk for a little, but Teddy isn’t paying attention. She’s trying to peer around Mrs. Manning’s legs and _there’s so many kids in there_.

“She doesn’t have a lot of experience with other kids,” mommy is telling Mrs. Manning. “But she’s really excited.”

“I can tell,” Mrs. Manning says, laughing. Daddy tugs on Teddy’s arm and instantly her attention snaps to him.

“Now, Theodosia,” he says, and Teddy instantly stills. He used her full name, this is _serious_. “You be a good girl, and listen to Mrs. Manning, and be nice to the other kids, okay? Remember what we said about sharing.”

Teddy nods in what she thinks is a serious manner. Daddy smiles and leans forward as best he can for a hug. “You’ll do great,” he says. Teddy hugs him back, and when he pulls away it’s mommy’s turn, and then Teddy is dancing away.

“Okay, it’s time for school now!” She announces, and all the adults smile, daddy laughs. Mrs. Manning finally lets her inside and she dashes in before anyone can stop her.

The first girl she meets is, a little freckled child who introduces herself as “Frances Manning! My mom is our teacher!”

“I’m Theodosia Burr-Madison,” Teddy responds, like she’s been taught to do in case someone important like a policeman asks what her name is. “But you can call me Teddy.”

But Frances is looking at her with confusion. “Why do you have two last names? That’s weird.” Teddy stops, then shrugs.

“I dunno,” she says, but it’s something she’s never thought about before. Her name was always Teddy Burr-Madison, she’s never even _considered_ that it could be weird. A boy with a gap in his teeth that makes him look silly pipes up:

“I have two last names,” he says. “My mom’s and my dad’s.”

“But mommies and daddies have the same last name,” says another girl. The boy shrugs.

“Mine don’t.” He turns to Teddy. “What’s your parent’s names.”

Teddy doesn’t blink. This too is an answer she knows by heart, just like her address and mommy’s phone number. “Dolley and James Madison.”

“Where does the Burr come from then?” Frances asks. Again Teddy shrugs. The other girl opens her mouth but then another boy comes into the room and all the attention is away from Teddy.

School is fun, Teddy likes Mrs. Manning and Frances seems nice. The boy with the silly teeth turns out to be named _Georges_ , which takes Teddy a couple tries to get right. And there’s Lily and there’s Susan and lots of other names that Teddy can’t quite sort out. But through all of it, the question of ‘where does the Burr come from’ floats in the back of her mind.

Teddy holds the question close until the end of the day, holds it tight as Mrs. Anna, her babysitter picks her up from school and brings it home. She colors at the table, the question running around in her head until finally her parents get home.

Daddy looks exhausted as mommy pushes him in the door, and Teddy knows he had a physical therapy appointment that day. That’s the only reason he ever looks that tired. Mommy steps into the kitchen and he pushes himself into the living room. Teddy grabs her picture and pads along after him.

He’s resting his head in his hand but when he sees Teddy approach, he raises his head and smirks at her. “Hey Teddy,” he says, sounding very tired. She smiles and holds up the picture.

“For you!!” She says, holding out the picture of her family she’s drawn. Daddy takes it in his hands with a ‘wow.’

“Looks really good sweetheart,” he says. Teddy bounces on her heels, hands clasped behind her back.

“Where does the Burr come from?” She asks. Daddy startles a little, his eyes snapping to her. For a moment, Teddy thinks she’s asked something bad, but daddy never gets mad at her for asking questions, and he always answers every single one.

“What?” He asks, and Teddy tells him all about Francis and Georges and having two last names. When she’s done, daddy hesitates, then slowly puts her picture down on the table.

“Come here honey,” he says, patting his leg. Teddy obediently hops onto his lap, even though mommy doesn’t like it when they do this. Teddy make sure she’s not sitting on daddy’s lap so he won’t get hurt and settles in. “Do you remember when you asked me where babies come from and I said they come from mommies’ bellies?” Teddy nods.

“Well, the mommy who’s belly you came from wasn’t Dolley,” he says. Teddy frowns, but Daddy’s already talking again. “When you were very little, you had a different mommy and daddy who loved you very much, but then they couldn’t take care of you, so Dolley and I decided to be your new mommy and daddy. Madison is our name, and Burr was your other daddy’s name.”

Teddy plays with one of the beads in her hair. “I have two mommies and two daddies?” Daddy purses his lips.

“Kind of, but not really. You’re adopted Teddy. That means your other mommy and daddy aren’t around, so it’s up to me and Dolley to raise you. But we love you very much and even if you didn’t come from Dolley’s belly, you’re still our daughter.”

Teddy nods. “Where are my other mom and dad?”

Daddy makes a heavy sigh. “They loved you very much and wanted to raise you, but something… something really bad happened Teddy, and they died.”

“Oh,” Teddy says. “That’s sad.”

Daddy nods. “It is.” Teddy looks up at him, and then throws her arms around his neck.

“Well, you’re my daddy,” she says, “and mommy’s my mommy.”

Daddy smiles, and pats her on the back. “I’m glad sweetheart. I love you.”

“Love you too,” she says, and then slides down from daddy’s lap. “I wanna show mommy the picture.”

———————

When Thomas went home, he fully intended to turn himself in. He just had to see his momma one last time. What he didn’t expect was his momma insisting he go stay in Monticello instead of letting him call the police on himself.

So he’s been living - _rotting_ \- in this huge house with its empty hallways and overgrown gardens and nothing but vast space for years. Momma comes by the most, but each of his siblings trade off the job of who brings Thomas groceries once every two weeks.

Most of them won’t talk to Thomas, choosing to drop off food and flee. That’s fine, Thomas doesn’t talk to any of them either. He doesn’t blame them. If it weren’t for Momma, they would have turned him in years ago. He barely talks to Momma, just a few words here and there. Mostly “yes ma’am,” “no ma’am,” and “sorry ma’am.”

He won’t let anyone touch him, not that anyone but his momma wants to. He feels like a ghost in his own home, no more real than the phantom Alexander than still follows him. He takes to gardening, and the change of the plant life in the gardens is just about the only thing letting him know he’s still here.

“Thomas,” comes Jane’s voice. She’s never stayed to even try and talk to him. He still remembers the way she yelled at Momma when she found out she was harboring Thomas. Thomas doesn’t respond but to pull a weed from the flower bed he’s working on.

“I found Sammy.” He turns around to look at her and she keeps talking. “Took me two years, traced it back. I… I never told momma.”

Thomas just nods and turns back to the flowers.

———————

“Okay, ready?” Dolley asks, holding James’ wheelchair in place, despite the fact the brakes are on. James nods, plants his hands on the armrests, and takes a deep breath. Teddy watches with wide eyes from the corner, not being allowed to come closer but obviously worried.

James lets out his breath, and then pushes himself up. He can feel himself rise, _actually rise_ , up to his full height. The plastic braces on his legs and up his torso straighten out and make sure his body doesn’t jackknife out from under him, and he grabs the walker in front of him.

And he’s _standing_.

Teddy breaks out into applause, even as Dolley and the physical therapist hover around him, making sure he’s not about to tip over. He allows himself to bask in it. Nine years ago he was told he’d never stand again. But here he is. Actually fucking standing.

“Okay, do you want to see if you can take a step?” The therapist asks, and boy has James never wanted to do anything more than that. Without even a word, he leans forward and to the side slightly, letting one of his legs swing forward. It’s dead weight but when James centers himself it settles back against the ground and _holy shit he’s walking._

James manages to make it five steps before he feels like he can’t do anymore, and when Dolley brings the chair up behind him he sits himself down and let the therapist take the braces off to check for rubbing or chafing.

“You walked!” Teddy calls. James turns to look at her, the grin stretched across his face matching hers.

“I did,” he says. “I actually walked.”

\--------------

Lafayette gets an email out of the blue from someone they were never expecting to. They think about ignoring it, but it stares at them from their computer at work. The subject line is what keeps drawing them back to it.

**_I adopted Teddy Burr and she wants to know about her parents_ **

Straight and to the point, just how they remember Agent Madison.

They eventually give, and read the email a few times before replying. Two days later they’re settled into their armchair, holding their breath as Skype loads. When the call finally connects and the picture clears, Lafayette stifles a gasp.

Little Teddy looks so much like her mother, even with her hair loose and pulled up in a poofy ponytail.

“Hello?” She asks, her voice small and delicate. Lafayette smiles.

“Hello little one, you must be Teddy,” they say. Her eyes widen, lighting up.

“You _do_ have an accent!” She says, and instantly there’s another voice from off screen:

 _“Theodosia, be polite!_ ” The voice is feminine, must be Madison’s wife. Teddy doesn’t looks the tiniest bit subdued as she turns her eyes back to Lafayette.

“Sorry, Mx. Lafayette.” The gender neutral honorific surprises Lafayette, not expecting it from such a young child in the southern part of America.

“It’s perfectly alright,” they say. “So, how have you been?”

“Good, how are you?” She asks.

“Just fine.” They look at the face staring at them through the screen. “How old are you?”

“Ten!” Teddy says excitedly. Lafayette smiles.

“Ten? How the time flies. The last time I saw you you were just a little baby,” they say, as if they haven’t counted every single day it’s been since John died, since Washington died, since Alexander died. “I heard you’ve got some homework you need my help on?”

Teddy nods, and she fiddles with some paper in front of her. “I’m supposed to write about my family for class.”

Lafayette raises an eyebrow. “Why not write about the Madisons?” they ask. Teddy fidgets in place.

“I am!” She insists. “But I wanna write about my birth parents too.”

Lafayette nods. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Did you really know them?” Teddy asks, after a moment’s hesitation. Once again, Lafayette nods.

“I knew your father more than I knew your mother, but yes,” they clarify. Teddy puts a pencil to paper and looks up at them with a stubbornness that reminds them of Aaron.

“What were they like?”

Lafayette takes a breath. Before they can speak, Agent Madison comes into frame, just in the back, like he’s getting a glass of water. They hesitate for just a moment, they’d heard that Madison had been paralyzed, but actually seeing him in a wheelchair makes their stomach drop. That man once tackled them, and now he can barely reach the kitchen sink.

But Madison is glaring at them, and they remember what they decided on was okay for a ten year old to know and what wasn’t.

“Mx. Lafayette?” Teddy asks. “What were my parents like?”

Lafayette lets out the breath. “Your mother Theodosia, she was… she was very sweet. Quiet, but really stubborn. Very strong.” Teddy takes notes diligently. They can see the big pencil movements as she scrawls it all down. “Your father, Aaron, he…”

Madison glares daggers at them.

“He was smart,” Lafayette settles with. “Stubborn too. A really good businessman. Excellent at making deals.”

“He was smart?” Teddy asks.

“He certainly thought he was clever, yes,” Lafayette says with a smile.

“Where they good people?”

“Of course they were sweetie,” Lafayette says, only half lying. Theodosia was a good person, as far as they knew.

“And they loved me?”

“More than anything,” Lafayette says. “They would have done _anything_ for you.”

\--------------

Thomas has to watch his own mother’s funeral from a darkened window, peering through window curtains. If it was just the immediate family, Thomas could say his goodbyes like he wants to. But the extended family is all gathered on the lawn of Monticello, as well as family friends. He spared a moment to look for Dolley, but she wasn’t there.

He supposed that was fair. He did kill her husband. Expecting her to attend his Momma’s funeral was a bit much.

When the reception moves inside, Thomas is banished into the farthest corner of the attic, hearing people moving and talking beneath him. He almost wishes one of them would find him, but Momma’s will was clear - Thomas was to stay home if at all possible. She had quite literally put it in her will - _Anything relating to Thomas is to be kept at home, never sold, never given away._ The ramblings of a bereaved mother to most, the message understood by everyone who knew.

He doesn’t cry. Hasn’t cried since the first night he came home.

Jane comes to find him once all the guests have left and he’s finally allowed in the Jefferson family burial plot. Her tombstone stands half his height, shining white stone.

“She’ll be okay,” Alexander says, standing beside him as he kneels before the stone.

“You’re all I have left,” he says, looking up at him. Eleven years and Alexander still looks as young as he did the day he died.

“Thomas?” Asks Jane, trepidation in her voice. He turns to find her still standing there, watching him carefully, like he’s some wild animal. Thomas stands, and Jane actually takes a step back in reaction. Thomas looks over at Alexander.

“Coming?” he mutters.

“Of course, where else would I go?” Alexander comes to stand by him, walking side by side as Thomas walks past Jane and back into the prison of his home.

\--------------

Ten years.

That was the deal Lafayette made with the U.S. Government. Ten years of uninterrupted service in the FBI, and they were free to go.

The day the ten years is up, Lafayette walks into their superior’s office, drops their badge on the table and walks out silently. They don’t even bother going back to their apartment, they won’t risk anything. As far as America will be concerned, Lafayette disappears from the sidewalk outside the Houston FBI building, never to be seen again.

Two days later, Lafayette steps out into the Parisian sunlight for the first time in almost twenty years. They make their way through Paris, winding their way through the twisting streets, until they find that familiar building that they haven’t seen in two decades.

They knock on the door, and a gruff looking fellow is ready to spit in their face until they realize who they’re looking at. Silently, he lets them pass, through the parlor full of men, only a handful Lafayette recognizes. They climb the winding staircase up to the residential floor, walk down the hallway and knock on their mother’s bedroom door.

When their mother calls them in, they step inside and the look on their mother’s face when she realizes who’s standing in her bedroom makes Lafayette never want to leave this room again.

“The last assignment didn’t go as planned,” they say, and all words are cut off as their mom gathers them into her arms and squeezes hard.

They sleep in their own bed for the first time in a long while, but it too feels too big without another body in it.

\--------------

James stands in his living room, balanced on his braced feet and his walker, listening to three men talk about how his trauma would make good television.

“For the anniversary, we thought it would be good to explore what happened that month fourteen years ago,” a fairly honest looking young man says, the anomaly in the group, the other two men look as skeezy and slippery as people who make money off televising pain might be. “All that would be required of you is an interview or two, perfectly honest, you only would have to tell us what you want to.”

“You’ll be paid, of course,” says the man in the pinstripe suit.

“With a bonus from the profits made after airing,” says the other man with slicked back hair.

“We really just think it’s a very compelling story,” the honest one says. “We’d really like to be able to talk to Jefferson, but that’s not possible, so we’d love to have you.”

James doesn’t have to think about it for a second. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he says. The honest man blinks in shock. “I don’t want you people bothering me or my family again.”

“But Mr. Madison -”

“I said no. You’re not putting a camera in my face and making talk about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” James points to the front door. “Out.”

The man in the pinstripe suit shrugs. “Not everyone wants to be on tv,” he says, and he and the others pick themselves up and make their way out of James’ home. He watches them go, waits until their car pulls out of the driveway. Then he slowly turns around, having to struggle to do so effectively. He’s started to walk regularly around the house just as practice, trying to get strong enough to only need forearm crutches.

Teddy stands in the doorway to a hallway, obviously trying to creep away, looking at James with guilty eyes.

“You were listening,” he says, voice hard.

“Just to the last bit,” she says.

“You’re not supposed to eavesdrop,” he says.

“And you’re not supposed to swear,” she responds. “I wanted to make sure they weren’t taking advantage of you.”

James blinks, looking at her for the first time in a different light. She’s just started high school, a young woman of fourteen years, and she looks so much like Theodosia Prevost it’s almost unsettling. But she’s also looking at him defiantly, arms crossed. Whatever a fourteen year old girl could have done to protect him from sleazy producers, James is certain she would have done.

“Don’t tell your mom I swore in front of you,” James says, a slight smile on his face.

\--------------

“And what did you see when you walked into that church Mr. Steuben?” Comes Andy’s voice form behind the blinding lights. Pierre and Ben are floating somewhere back in the set somewhere, but all Steuben can see is the camera and that damn light.

 _Two months,_ his doctor’s voice comes back to him in his head. _The cancer’s spread to your lymph nodes and I’m sorry, but two months is the best I can give you_.

“I saw…”

_Two months isn’t enough to prosecute me, is it?_

“...just in front of the altar, I found Thomas.”

He hears the suck of breath Pierre makes, and Steuben tries to ignore it. He’s carried this secret around for far too long. “I found Thomas sitting there, cradling Hamilton’s body.”

\--------------

Teddy hung her Columbia acceptance letter on the wall in her room and now stares at it whenever she can’t quite believe that she actually made it. She did it. All that hard work and service hours and sleeplessness was worth it.

 _Columbia_.

She’s got so much stuff floating around her room that she’s meant to take to school with her - gifts for her 18th birthday about a week ago. She’s supposed to be organizing things, but it’s only June, she has the whole summer to get ready to move to New York and start school. This is the first summer she has almost completely clear and she’s going to enjoy it.

Her phone lights up with a text from her dad, _come downstairs_. She sighs, climbs out of bed and shuffles downstairs. She assumes it’s lunch time, but when she comes to the kitchen, there’s no food out. Her mom and dad sit at the kitchen table with a shoebox in front of them, solemn expressions that don’t break even as she walks in.

“What’s up?” She asks, suddenly unsure. Her dad bites his lip, looks at her and then down at the box. Her mom sighs and stands.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, and leaves. Teddy watches her go warily, and then turns her attention back to her dad.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” She asks. Instantly, her dad’s expression changes, trying to look consoling.

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” he says. “I… I’m just not looking forward to this.” He lets out a sigh. “Sit down, please.”

Teddy takes the seat across the table from him, fear bubbling in her gut. She tries to read his face and figure out what’s up, but her dad is stoic as he drums his fingers on the lid of this cardboard box.

“Your mother and I think it’s time you know about what happened to your birth parents,” he says. Teddy blinks, frightened confusion flooding her.

“What do you mean? Aren’t they dead?” She asks. Her dad nods.

“They are, that’s not it. We think it’s time for you to know _how_ and _why_ they died.” Her dad looks down at the box and pushes it across the table to her. “I’ve collected the best information regarding what happened in this box, not because I don’t want to tell you, I just don’t know how good of a job I would be able to do.”

Teddy looks down at the box. She’s never really been concerned about what happened to her birth parents, James and Dolley are her mom and dad as far as she’s concerned. But…

“Everything’s in here?” She asks. Her dad nods, hands clasped on the table.

“I won’t make you look,” he says. “It’s your choice. I’m telling you it’s a choice because… well, Theodosia, I’ll be honest with you. It’s not a good story. Your parents got wrapped up in something that… they aren’t the only people who died, and I… I lost my legs because of what killed your parents.”

Teddy blinks. She knew her dad wasn’t always paralyzed, but never knew how it happened. It just wasn’t something they talked about.

“If you don’t want to know now, that’s okay. I’ll keep the box for when you are. But when you are, I’ll be here to try and help the best I can.”

And then he falls silent, watching Teddy carefully. She stares at this beige box in silence for a moment. A curiosity she’s never known regarding her birth parents she’s never known bubbles in her veins. It makes her shift in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable in her own clothes.

And then slowly, slowly she reaches forward and pulls the lid of the box off. She hears her father let out a low breath, but she doesn’t stop. She puts the lid down and looks inside.

The first thing she finds is a single photograph of two smiling people, a man and a woman, one of which looks familiar. Teddy can’t place it until she realizes the woman looks like what Teddy sees in the mirror everyday. Even without asking, she knows who the people are, but she asks anyway and her father nods. “They found it in your father’s possession when he died,” he explains.  
She stares at the photograph in silence, tracing the sharp lines of her mother’s face until moving onto her father’s slight but brilliant smile, his thin face and intelligent eyes. She almost feels like they can see her through the picture, like she’s looking back in time to when these two people were happy and in love and _alive_.

She carefully puts it aside after a long moment, and reaches for the next thing - a print out of an online article from _The Washington Post_. The headline reads: _The King Massacres: What Went Wrong In New York_ , and it’s dated early September, eighteen years ago.

Teddy takes a deep breath, and starts to read.

\--------------

Thomas is so tired. His body aches with every moment and there’s this growing pain in his chest that flares with every breath. He can’t sleep, which perhaps is a reprieve from the nightmares, but it makes him feel like he’s going insane. Well, more insane than he’s been.

It’s not until the coughing starts, and then the coughing turns to coughing blood onto his hands that Thomas realizes what’s happening. And the realization is comforting. His hell is almost over.

But he has to do one last thing first.

\-------------

It’s been eighteen years.

Eighteen long, _hard_ years, but through all of them James never thought he’d be _here_. In a New York cemetery, standing - _actually standing on his own_ \- beside his daughter. They stand in silence, staring down at the pair of headstones in front of them. _Aaron Burr, Theodosia Prevost_.

“Would you like to be alone, or do you want me here?” James asks Teddy. She lets out a breath.

“I’d like a minute alone,” she says, her voice clear. James nods. He understands.

“Come find me when you’re ready,” he says. Leaning heavy on his crutches, James starts to make his way across the grass. He still can’t feel the ground beneath his feet, can’t feel the clothes or the braces on his skin, but if he watches where he puts his feet and keeps a hold of his crutches, he can walk.

It’s hard and tiring, but he can walk on his own. It’s taken him so many years but he can do it, even along the uneven ground he now slowly picks his way across now.

James makes his way away from the forgotten corner of this cemetery and starts to weave his way around the rest of it. There’s a small hill towards the back, and while James knows he shouldn’t be trying to tackle an incline alone, he’s going to try anyway. He can hear Dolley admonishing him already, but he slowly starts moving.

It’s not _walking_ walking, his legs still don’t work the way they used to, but by leaning on his crutches, shifting his weight, and using his upper body to shift his legs forward, he can make his wobbly, uneven way along. With his eyes mostly focused on the ground, the only headstones he can read are those that are flat, pushed into the dirt, names and dates facing up towards the sky.

The one that reads _Alexander Hamilton_ catches James off guard. It’s small, just the name and a set of dates, but the death date matches the worst day of James’ life. He’d known that Friedrich had arranged Hamilton’s burial, must have paid for that headstone himself, but James had never been up here to see it. He’d never wanted to.

Looks at the start and end dates of Hamilton’s life, does the math, and takes a long breath. Twenty four. Hamilton had been twenty four when he died. James had been twenty six when he lost his legs. Thomas -

James doesn’t want to think about Thomas. James is forty-four now, it’s been eighteen years, and he’s never managed to stop thinking about Thomas. Even now, _especially now_ , looking down at Hamilton’s gravestone all the old unanswerable questions surface in James’ mind. _What exactly happened that night eighteen years ago? Where had Thomas gone? What had happened to him? Why Hamilton? Why did Thomas give everything up for_ Hamilton? _Why? Why? Why?_

Hamilton’s tombstone gives no answers. James realizes he’s been standing in place for a few minutes. He lets out a breath, tears his gaze away from that carved stone, and starts back up the hill. He tries to squash the thoughts spinning in his head. There’s no use in dwelling on any of them, it’s nothing but torment,

He’s halfway up the hill before he has to stop and take a small breather. He looks up at the crest of it, taking stock of the way his chest feels and the tingling feeling in the back of his mind that tells him he’s starting to push his limits. He might not be able to feel his lower half anymore, but the concentration it takes to walk now makes up for any soreness in his feet or legs.

Speaking of, he does the mental calculation of how long he’s been wearing his braces for. Dolley would tell him he needs to sit and check for sores and irritation, since he can’t feel it if or when his skin starts to chafe and rub raw. James stares up at the hill and decides that no, he can’t make it all the way. Not by himself, at least. There are benches by the church that runs the cemetery. He’ll go sit and wait for Teddy.

When he turns around, James discovers that despite not making it all the way, he is considerably high up. Leaning on his crutches, he takes a moment just to look out over the graveyard, the even rows of stones poking out of the ground. Some are ornate, there’s one with an angel statue on top, but some are plain, or even just barely poking out of the grass. The eclecticness is charming, in a way.

From his vantage point, James can see two people on this side of the cemetery. Two lonely figures amongst the stone. His daughter crouches before one of the stones, making a charcoal rubbing of the engraving there, a few other scrolls of paper beside her on the ground. The other figure is knelt on the ground in front of a stone a good distance away from her.

James blinks, he hadn’t noticed the other man during his trek up the hill. He must have come up behind James at some point. It wasn’t entirely out of the question, James knows that anyone with two functioning legs can move far quicker than he can, and he was concentrating pretty hard on keeping his balance on the grass hill.

The man is knelt down in front of one of the smaller stones, one just barely showing above the grass, his head hung almost to his chest. James feels a pang of sympathy for the stranger, starts to avert his eyes, only to realize a moment later exactly _which_ small tombstone he’s knelt in front of.

James’ eyes narrow. Who would want to visit _Hamilton?_ He watches as the man slowly lifts his head and he can’t stifle the gasp. He can’t deny that distinctive poof of hair.

James swallows, throat suddenly dry. It could be Lafayette - no. No, they never let their hair down like that. He can feel his heartbeat picking back up as Thomas - Thomas motherfucking Jefferson - sits back on his heels.

And suddenly, James is so viciously, blindingly _angry_ again. Like it’s the first year after New York, he’s that angry. It all comes rushing back and he’s back in that awful place again.

James is moving down the hill before he even makes his decision. Not for the first time, he wishes he could walk even the slightest bit faster. Thomas is staring ahead and down, hands clasped in front of him. James stumbles, just manages to catch himself with his crutches. Falling isn’t an option, not now.

He’s a few feet behind Thomas when he finally stops. Thomas still hasn’t noticed him, his focus is still ahead of him. Breathing hard, James just stares for a moment, trying to form words in the rage that’s coursing through his body. A gentle breeze blows through, bending the grass and tossing Thomas’ hair. James sucks in one last breath, still in a state of disbelief even as he calls out:

“Thomas?”

Thomas stiffens, head jerking upwards just slightly. When he turns, he only moves his head to look over his shoulder. James waits, eyes scanning the still slightly-hunched figure. Thomas looks so _tired_. There’s a dusting of gray in his hair, his beard is longer than James has ever seen it, frown and worry lines crease his face but his _eyes_ \- the deadness in his eyes takes James aback more than anything else.

When Thomas looks at James, there’s no spark in his eyes. He doesn’t look scared or surprised or happy or _anything_. Simply resigned, exhausted. James finds himself without words, even as Thomas sighs and turns away from him.

“Took you long enough,” Thomas says, his voice harsh, like it’s been out of use for centuries. James blinks, brows furrowing. “Come on, join us.”

“What?” James asks, taking a tentative step forward. The anger is dissipating, replaced by sheer shock. Thomas looks at Hamilton’s headstone.

“It’s fine Alex,” Thomas says in response. “He has a right to be angry.”

“I…” James’ eyes flick to the headstone, then back up at Thomas. He’s not looking at the tombstone, not really. He’s looking up, like someone’s sitting on the other side of the stone. “Thomas?” He steps forward to stand beside Thomas.

Thomas looks over at him, gaze flicking up and down. “Odd,” he says. “You look older.” He then looks at the empty space he was looking at a moment ago. “Didn’t think you aged.”

James looks down at him in confusion, the littlest hint of fear building in the back of his mind as he reaches out one hand and places it on Thomas’ shoulder. The crutch dangles from his forearm as he balances on the other. “What are you talking about?” He asks.

But Thomas doesn’t look like he hears him. His head snaps around to look at where James is touching him, his eyes growing wide. He looks at where James’ hand holds his shoulder almost uncomprehendingly, like there’s something in his head short-circuiting. There’s a long silence. James waits, concern growing.

Thomas’ breathing is starting to pick up, James can feel where he’s tensing beneath James’ hand. Slowly, Thomas looks up at him, and there’s something resembling fear in his face now. Before James can say or do anything, Thomas moves.

He’s almost violent in the way he flings James’ hand off his shoulder, the way he scrambles backwards across the grass. He looks up at James and suddenly James feels like an executioner looking down at a condemned man.

Thomas gets a couple of feet away before he stops moving, chest heaving. His fingers dig into the grass, looking for something to hold onto. He won’t look away from James, even as James takes another step forward with a gentle call of Thomas’ name.

And then, suddenly, without warning, Thomas bursts into tears.

James blinks, he’d stumble backwards if a single step didn’t take so much effort. Thomas curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest, long thin fingers of one hand digging into his legs. His other hand comes up to hold his shoulder where James had touched him.

And suddenly there’s a lifetime of memories from a childhood James once had flooding his head, and he manages to make his way over to Thomas. He struggles to lower himself to the ground, not sparing a thought to how he’s supposed to get back up again. He ends up sitting at Thomas’ feet, sideways, twisting his chest to look directly at him.

“Look at me,” James says, propping himself up with one hand. He reaches out one hand to grab Thomas’ foot, but Thomas flinches away.

“Don’t -” he gasps out - “don’t touch me.” James pulls his hand away with enough speed that he’s forced to rebalance himself quickly. He simply waits, almost helplessly, for Thomas to stop crying.

It takes a long moment before Thomas picks his head up again, eyes puffy now but they’re not dead anymore. He looks at James, the knuckles of the hand holding his shoulder turning pale from how hard he’s grabbing himself. James finds himself at a loss for words again.

“I thought you were dead,” Thomas says, voice shaking. “You were dead.”

James feels like all the air is punched out of his lungs, but he shakes his head. “I’m alive,” is all he can think to say. It sounds dumb but it’s all he has.

Thomas nods, his eyes finally sliding to the ground again. “I… I know. You touched me.”

“What does that have anything to do with it?” James asks, still trying to catch up. Thomas looks over to Hamilton’s tombstone.

“I can’t touch Alex or he disappears,” Thomas says. James glances over at the empty space, then back at Thomas. It really looks like Thomas _is_ seeing someone, the way his eyes are focused on the spot. “I thought - when you appeared - I thought you were like him.”

James blinks. Thomas looks back down at the ground just to the side of James, like he can’t look at him anymore. He tries to think, obviously Thomas is far from okay, but just how far? He clears his throat. “And what is he?” James asks.

“Hallucination, probably,” Thomas says. “I know he’s not real.” He wipes the tears from his face and hunches over his curled up knees.

James grits his jaw. “I’m real,” he says, “I’m alive.” He reaches out again, but again Thomas flinches away.

“No, don’t touch me,” Thomas says, a tiny hint of fear creeping back into his voice. “Not again.” James hesitates, one hand outstretched in the air between them, then nods and pulls it back in. Thomas fidgets, eyes glued to the ground as his hand taps out anxious rhythms against his leg.

“I thought I killed you,” Thomas eventually says. “How are you alive?”

James looks at his old friend, not knowing where to start. His crutches are forgotten on the ground behind him, and he looks over at them. “Medical miracle, that’s what I’ve always been told.”

Thomas follows his gaze. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asks. James lets out a breath.

“Thomas, I’m paralyzed.”

The words James has always wondered what it would be like to say to Thomas land, and he watches Thomas’ expression collapse. “You were just walking,” he says, horror in his voice. James shows him the braces on his legs and explains how long it took to get to a place where he _could_ walk, and Thomas just looks at him like James is going to shatter at any moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas says, and the words knock the air from James’ chest. And he doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead he asks:

“Where have you been?”

Thomas shuts his eyes for a moment, struggling to process. “I… um… around. Monticello mostly, I’m so sorry I took your legs.”

“It could have been Hamilton’s bullet, we don’t know who actually shot me,” James says. “But Monticello?”

Thomas nods, still looking shell-shocked. He tells James he came home with the intent to turn himself in, but his Mom insisted he not. His siblings all know, which hits James like a slap in the face. How many times did he speak to Mrs. Jefferson, or the other Jefferson siblings? How many times did they look at him in his wheelchair and _know_ they were hiding Thomas?

“What are you doing here, then?” James asks. For the first time, Thomas actually smiles. It’s haunted, bitter, but relieved.

“I’m dying James,” he says. “I don’t know of what but I can _feel_ it. I had to see him before that, though.” Thomas looks over at the tombstone. “The actual Alexander.” There’s a moment of silence, then: “Would you please let me die at home, please? I don’t want to die prison.”

Before James can respond, a urgent voice calls out behind him. “Dad? _Dad!_ ”

James does his best to look over his shoulder, finding where Teddy is scanning the graveyard, concern across her face. “Over here!” He calls back, and Teddy’s eyes find him.

“Dad?” Thomas asks. James looks at him and nods. Teddy storms across the grass to where they are.

“Are you alright?” She asks, coming to hover over him. “Why are you on the ground? Who is this?”

James lets out a little breath. Teddy is looking between him and Thomas with concern and anger spread across her face. Thomas looks like he’s been hit.

“That’s not…” he starts, trailing. James nods.

“Teddy, this is Thomas,” he says. “Thomas Jefferson.” Teddy sucks in a breath, looking at Thomas with wide eyes.

“You look like your mom,” is all Thomas can say. When James looks at him, he can almost see the memories playing in Thomas’ head, can almost see Prevost’s body in reflected in his eyes. Slowly, Teddy stands straight, looking down at Thomas. The silent moment stretches, James just waiting. Then

“Would you like to go get lunch?” Teddy asks, holding out her hand to Thomas. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Thomas stares at her outstretched hand, then up at her. “Have you been happy?” Thomas asks. Teddy keeps her hand outstretched.

“I’ve had a good life,” she says. “Please, Mr. Jefferson.”

Slowly, surprising James, Thomas nods. He stands without taking Teddy’s hand, and she quickly lowers it. “I have to leave after that,” Thomas warns.

“We’re dropping Teddy off at school and then Dolley and I are going back to Virginia,” James cuts in, the only one still on the ground. “Would you like to travel with us? We drove.”

Something dances in Thomas’ eyes. “Yes,” he says, breathlessly. “I’d like that.”

James smiles, and then offers his hands to Teddy to help him up. They pull him to his feet in a practiced motion, Thomas watching with his hands awkwardly tucked into his pockets. When James is standing, he motions towards the front gate of the graveyard.

“Come on,” James says, “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Thomas, James and Teddy leave the graveyard together, disappearing into the New York crowd. Above, the sun shines down and the late summer air smells of the city streets. The city pulses and flows, oblivious to the three making their way to a small cafe. Somewhere, in France, a person eats dinner alone. In California, an FBI agent coordinates a drug bust. In Colorado, two sisters go about their morning business. The dead rest in the ground, their memories alive in those who still breathe.

The world spins on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks. It's all over.
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this journey. I have spent a year and some months writing this story and so much has changed in that time. I cannot thank you all enough for the constant support and love. I'm gonna miss this, and the constant happiness it brings me every week. Thank you all so so so much.
> 
> Now that it's officially over, I'm wiling to answer any questions you have for me in full detail. I don't have to worry about spoilers from now on, so ask away. Even if you don't have questions, I'd just love to discuss this. What you liked, what you didn't, anything. Hit me up here, or on [tumblr](https://theinevitablesense.tumblr.com/).
> 
> It's time for our final Historical Notes:
> 
> Thomas Jefferson died in 1826 from illness, James Madison in 1836, Theodosia Burr-Alston in 1813 in a shipwreck, Lafayette in 1834, Dolley Madison in 1849, Angelica Schuyler in 1814, and Eliza Schuyler in 1854. There's too much to unpack for any one of them to elaborate on their deaths, but there you go.
> 
> See you around, I suppose.

**Works inspired by this one:**

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